


Soul Surviving

by Teridactyl



Series: Wasteland Management [3]
Category: Fallout 4
Genre: Action/Adventure, Canon-Typical Violence, Dialogue Heavy, Diary/Journal, Drama, Embedded Images, Eventual Romance, F/M, Fan Art, Fan Comics, Found objects, Funny, Gen, M/M, Romance, Sad, Slow Burn, Swearing, Unreliable Narrator, Visual Story Telling, scrapbook
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-27
Updated: 2020-03-19
Packaged: 2020-03-20 07:23:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 31
Words: 27,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18987979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Teridactyl/pseuds/Teridactyl
Summary: In-character photojournal of Nathan Rook, male Sole Survivor, as he observes and remarks on his experiences around the Wasteland following his escape from the Vault 111. This is a unique collection of Fallout 4 inspired ephemera from the game in the form of journal entries, comic pages, scrapbook pages, screen shots, comics, handwritten notes, dictation transcripts, and other "found" objects that closely follows the Fallout 4 main storyline. Includes "off camera" dialogue, observations, thoughts, snippets, ramblings, memories, additional dialogue, and...stuff.*** IMAGE INTENSIVE ***. Some of these chapters contain large images. These may take longer than usual to load depending on your connection. Reading chapter-by-chapter instead of one long, continuous page makes it easier to click through. That said, I definitely try and make it worth the wait.





	1. This Book Does Not Exist

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	2. Found & Lost from Vault 111

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ephemera from the files and desks of Vault 111. A lot of backstory I felt was necessary for me for storytelling purposes, but made in a way I hope is also entertaining.

 

* * *

 

 

> "Just because you're paranoid doesn't mean they aren't after you."
> 
> \- Joseph Heller, Catch-22

 

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**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ever wonder why Nate was hand-picked by Vault-tec to live in a Vault? Considering Vault-tec was a huge military contractor in the Falloutverse, it's not a stretch to see how they could have researched their healthiest and most skilled candidates that would be likely to not only survive a nuclear fallout, but fall in line, be team players, and bring a vast amount of skills to the Vault community. Sure, it doesn't so much cross the line of conspiracy theory as pole vault over it, but show me a company in Fallout that's even the slightest bit ethical.
> 
> The QR Code at the top works, but it just leads you to the same stuff you see below it here. More for effect than function. I learned a lot about QR Codes, though!


	3. Is This Thing On?

  
  


###### Journal 0001 | Is This Thing On?

  


  
  


  


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**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This picks up where [Deep Dive](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18820966) left off, so the first journal post is really the last thing you see there, but I re-posted it here for consistency.
> 
> The top image is _not_ a Banksy. It's a public domain image of one of the "shadow people" flash burned into surfaces from the sun-like intensity of heat and light from the nuclear bombs dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki. I just learned the effect is really a bleaching of the brick wall behind the figures that blocked the flash, like a tan line turned up to a million. 
> 
> I don't know which city this particular image is from, but it's definitely one of the most haunting and heartbreaking. The stone next to the girl's shadow is a Japanese prayer stone left after the fact. I added the minimal color you see, including the paper cranes. I'm aware of the Japanese tradition about 100 white paper cranes, but it was hard to see the two stacked on top of one another. In fact, I stared at this image quite a while before I even noticed they were there at all. It just shows how unexpected and devastating the attack was.


	4. Straight Outta Vault 111

  


  


 

######  Journal 0002 | Straight Outta Vault 111

  


  
  


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	5. Buggin' Me

  


###### Journal 0003 | Buggin' Me

  


  
  
  
  
  


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**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have heard from many former military friends how difficult adjusting to civilian life is, even during peacetime. Sometimes you just gotta laugh to keep going.


	6. Vault Suit Riot

  


  


###### Journal 0004 | Vault Suit Riot

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You gotta wonder what all those little tubes and sensors do in that Vaultsuit. Nathan _may_ be a little hyperbolic here and over-exaggerating a _wee_ bit, but he's having a bad fucking day, I think he's allowed to freak out.


	7. Pop A Cap

  


###### Journal 0005 | Pop A Cap

  


  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not sure I'd want to eat 200 year old chocolate, but he's got a point. People in the Wasteland obviously don't know what a safe is for.


	8. Onward

  


  


###### Journal 0006 | Onward

  
  


  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The top image is obviously heavily inspired by _House of Leaves_ by Mark Z. Danielewski. In fact, this whole project is. I highly recommend it. You have to actually read the book though--it's not available in digital format. But once you start reading it, you'll understand why. It's a work of art in words.


	9. Nothin' for Money

  


  


###### Journal 0007 | Nothin' for Money

  


  
  
  
  
  


  
  


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**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eventually I also abandon the Pip-Boy photos as well. It was kinda cute in the beginning but it gets gimmicky and annoying pretty fast. Believe me, as soon as you're annoyed with something I've been doing, I've probably already beaten you to it.


	10. Minutemen Need My Help

  


  


###### Journal 0008 | Minutemen Need My Help

  


  
  
  


  


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	11. Red Rocket

  


  


###### Journal 0009 | Red Rocket

  


  
  
  
  
  
  


  


  


  
  


  


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	12. We're In The Army Now...Kinda

  


  


###### Journal 0010 | We're In The Army Now...Kinda

  


  
  
  


  


  


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	13. As Good As Gold

  


  


###### As Good As Gold

  


  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


  
  


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	14. Parental Descent

###### Parental Descent

I gave up on sleeping last night—too much shit in my head and not enough sheep left to count, them being extinct and all.

So, I got up and tinkered with the bits and pieces of armor odds and ends at the workbench in the garage. I have to admit, I'm impressed with my own handiwork. It's kind of neat what you can accomplish with one thing when you're furiously trying to ignore another.  
  
I buffed and re-painted the armor. Codsworth helped as well, and the dog kept a lookout. A good time was had by all.  
  
Codsworth put a finisher on the armor by polishing it with a matte car wax. I thought he was wasting his time, but the 'bot knows his waxes, I'll give him that. Spiffy enough for a General now, I s'pose. I definitely feel less exposed, and that's all that matters.  
  
At some point I passed out from exhaustion on the garage floor. I woke with my sleeping bag draped over me and a pillow under my head. The dog was sleeping next to me, and I was grateful for the extra warmth. A warm body is a warm body, even one covered in fur. He could definitely use a bath, though...  
  
Meanwhile, Codsworth had cleaned up our  _Craftstravaganza_ from the night before. Afterward, he'd carefully pulled the stitches off Jihani's Paratrooper patch from his beret so as to keep both patch and cap mostly intact. I'd forgotten to tell him the significance of that patch or that I wanted to try and save it out of respect—I guess he just knew...or he just knows what a sentimental sap I am.  
  
I washed up while Codsworth INSISTED on making me breakfast. He fed me and the dog some kind of mystery meat (I told him I didn't want to know what it came from), and a sliced fried "tato" for me, which is EXACTLY what you'd think it is, but I guarantee you can't imagine how it tastes until you try it. I guess it was pretty good, because I ate the hell out of it. I was hungrier than I realized.  
  
He asked me if I wanted coffee. For the first time in my adult life, I declined.   
  
I suited up and we headed out.  
  
I took us West this morning. I thought maybe we could skirt around Concord just in case there were more raiders or those Deathclaw things hanging around, and switch back near Walden Pond. We didn't make it that far. In fact, we barely left the front of the garage.  
  
Just over the hill, some folks have built a small farm around an electricity pylon. They've built the walls of their house around the frame and foundation of the tower; kinda neat, actually, though it needs some serious patching up. One thing at a time, though.  
  
Blake and Connie Abernathy are their names, and they have a teenage daughter too, but I conveniently forgot her name because she was kind of making eyes at me. Sorry kid...I don't date anyone less than 232 years old.   
  
Nice folks, though...at least once I convinced Blake to take his shotgun outta my face. And that Codsworth wasn't there to napalm their tato field. Christ, the things these people must have seen. And it shows all over Blake's face.  
  
They'd had another daughter, too, Mary. Last time they were hit with raiders, she tried to stand up to them and they gunned her down, then took her silver locket that had been in Connie's family for decades.  
  
They asked if I could get it back. Like there was a chance in hell I'd be able to find it. But Blake's eyes welled with tears, and dammit, as one grieving father to another, I couldn't say no. SO sucker that I am, I agreed.  
  
And if it's a chance to take a few more raiders off this planet, then fine by me.  
  
Could raiders have taken Shaun? They don't seem terribly organized—most of them just seem like junkies trying to live long enough to get to their next fix. What would they do with a baby? Sell it? ...Eat it?  
  
(Woah, ROOK. THAT escalated quickly! Maybe hold back on the dead baby jokes when it's your own SON, son.)   
  
Yeah, well. Doesn't seem like a real reliable food source, anyway.  
  
Ahem. So. These raiders were squatting in the USAF Olivia station. I'd always wanted to go in there, but I was a lowly civilian by the time they finished it. Would have been a lot faster of a commute.

Getting in was a piece of cake. Apparently, nobody uses locks in the future. Or secure passwords (STILL), because there was a terminal right at the front desk, also unlocked. Weirdly, it still had a check-in roster on it from the day the bombs fell. I recognized at least half those names.  
  
I don't know why that surprised me. Naturally, some of our Comm tech experts would be going there for surveillance work, but I was completely unprepared for it. I mean...these were soldiers I'd served with! I wasn't friends with most of them, but that's beside the point.   
  
CCSgt Applegate (asshole). SSgt Winters (asshole). SSgt Hicks (HILARIOUS asshole).   
  
And Technical Sergeant Cooper.  
  
Sam Cooper emailed me the day I got my discharge to tell me she was going on maternity leave. I congratulated her and said that I was going on LEAVE-leave. As in  _buh-bye_. She congratulated me on getting out early for good behavior. As if.  
  
We promised to stay in touch, promised to visit, to write, talk on the phone... Like so many other work friendships, that never happened. Her due date was exactly 9 months before Shaun. I thought about sending her a card at work to tell her after we found out a few weeks later, and RE-congratulate her on moving on, and suckering someone else into being the father, and include a crisp, new $100 bill with a note saying, "Down payment for child support," just to add gasoline to the rumors around base. I decided it was inappropriate. Then I decided SHE'D find it hilarious—even if Ashley wouldn't—and was gonna do it anyway. Then didn't.   
  
I froze there in Olivia station, trapped by my own thoughts. Hell, I didn't even have any way of knowing if it was MY Cooper, but I couldn't let it go. Codsworth hovered behind me and asked if I was all right; I thought it was pretty damn obvious I wasn't. I guess I'd judged Preston too soon for freezing up.  
  
Then a raider wearing a sack on his head and suspenders and no shirt came hollering into the room, waving a pipe wrench around like a tomahawk.   
  
I sighed like only a weary parent can. And then I SNAPPED.  
  
I channeled every grieving parent that had ever lost a child to one of these assholes, and then every colleague, friend, lover, and even some noteworthy jackasses I knew that died when the bombs fell, GOOD people, innocent people, people who had friends, and lovers, and children of their own—OH GOD, the children—because for some reason it hadn't occurred to me until that exact moment that 

EVERYONE I'VE EVER KNOWN IS DEAD.

And if they didn't die in the bombing, they're certainly dead now, and they ALL suffered.  ** _HUMANITY_ SUFFERED**.

And here I am 210 years later watching some idiot with really bad fashion sense wave a pipe wrench at my head, because this is where we ended up. The gene pool picked these mouth-breathers as examples of humanity's finest.  
  
I sorta blacked out after that. Logic took a back seat and let instinct and training drive.

I am become death, destroyer of morons.

The next thing I knew I was holding a little silver locket in my hand. Sad, tarnished, scratched to hell, dented on one side from being pressed too hard too many times. Hardly fit for a gumball machine prize. Inside was an old picture of a young woman, and an inscription that said

something I couldn't read. Too faded. It wasn't important. But for this little trinket a young woman lost her life. And her parents lost their daughter.  
  
We looked around a bit afterward. We didn't find much.  
  
There were several remains of officers who'd been in the building at the time of the bombing. I didn't stick around to ID them or look for their tags. I didn't wanna know who was who, and I wouldn't have known what to do with them anyway.  
  
So, I saluted...

...and left.  
  
It was pretty quiet on the way back.

Codsworth had been fairly chatty on the way there. He even stopped me at one point to tell me how much he'd missed us, and how he thought of us as his family, and that it was Nora's and my love for Shaun that kept him going for all these years...  
  
Only to see me snap and turn into the US Army's perfect killing machine. Yeah. Can't you just feel the love?  
  
I guess Codsworth is the only family member that's ever visited me at work, then. Bring Your Robot to Work Day.

A short while later we got back to the Abernathy farm. They were super relieved to get her locket back. I was super relieved to give it back to them. They said they'd welcome the Minutemen back anytime. Score one for the good guys...all two of us.  
  
I'm gonna head south tomorrow. I wanna try and at least get into Cambridge and have a look around there. I'm still holding out hope for some kind of civil law enforcement—police, military, a security guard—SOMETHING has to be out there that can help me. It can't be murder and mayhem all the time. Can it?  
  
I'm leaving Codsworth and going alone. I can cover more ground that way, and, well, he's not exactly built for stealth. Kinda hard to sneak up on someone when you have a robot hovering 6 feet above the ground right behind you. He'd be good at keeping his eyes out for Shaun—after all, he knew him. But Shaun's a baby. I suppose they all kinda look alike.  
  
"Hi, have you seen my son? He's small, pink, and has a tendency to squeal a lot."  
  
Great, Rook. You just described a piglet. Go to bed already, fer cryin' out loud.

###### Photos

  


 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rejoice, I'm giving up on the Pip-Boy journal format and pictures. Anything more than about 5 pages on that thing is an exercise in frustration and really slowed me down, so you'll just have to pretend. Hopefully this is a little easier on the eyes now, too.


	15. Offensive Defense

 

 

###### Offensive Defense

 

ROBCO HOLOTAPE TRANSCRIPTION  
RED ROCKET, SANCTUARY  
OCT 2287 05:34 

**// Begin Transcription**

**CODSWORTH:** Looking good, sir! May I have a moment to take your photograph? For posterity, you know! Have to have something for the history books! 

**NATHAN:** Yeah. Sure. [Background noises, footsteps, etc.] 

**CODSWORTH:** ...Really, Mr. Rook? That isn't the most dignified portrait for a General of your standing.  

**NATHAN:** Would it be better if I was sitting?

**CODSWORTH:** Ugh. Honestly, I wonder how the Missus put up with you, sometimes.

**NATHAN:** You know, I asked myself that every day. Turns out, she really liked my butt. 

**CODSWORTH:** [Sighs] Are you sure there wasn't something else she valued, sir? ANYTHING else? 

**NATHAN:** You'd think that, but nope. Just my butt. So, be sure to get lots and lots of pictures of my backside for your book. 

**CODSWORTH:** It's not that kind of book. 

**NATHAN:** So, make it a satire. What's the saying? Comedy is just tragedy plus time? 

**CODSWORTH:** Oh, sir. You can't really believe the last few days have been at all humorous? 

**NATHAN:** For cryin' out loud, Codsworth. _Lighten_ the hell _up_. 

**CODSWORTH:** Er, er...s-sir? I'm-I'm only trying pay my respects and remind you of happier times.

**NATHAN:** [Groans] I know. And I appreciate that. But I need you to dial it back a few notches. A LOT of notches. 

**CODSWORTH:** You would rather...not...be reminded? 

**NATHAN:** Oh my God... There isn't a single minute that goes by that I don't think about her. I miss her in ways you can't even begin to process. I'm not even sure _I've_ begun to. Just...a million little ways you don't even notice about someone until they're gone.   She...she used to hold my hand whenever we'd hear a loud noise somewhere—in a movie, a restaurant, walking in the park. Wherever we were. I don't even remember when she started doing that. But I'd hear it, and then there she would be, her hand in mine. Almost like out of nowhere. I never thought I was bothered by loud noises or typical triggers. But...I realize now it's because she was always there to hold my hand through it... I can't even begin to count how many times I've reached for her hand the last few days only to squeeze air... So, _BELIEVE_ me... I'm reminded.

But I have a job to do now, Codsworth. _Two_ of them, I guess. And if we're gonna travel together, I can't have you reminding me of her every 50 yards. It's like a knife in my gut. It's...distracting... This place is bad enough. 

**CODSWORTH:** Is there another place you'd rather stay, sir? Er...Sanctuary again, perhaps? 

**NATHAN:**   _NO_. No, I mean Boston, in general. This is my hometown. I was born here. I grew up here. I'm a native Masshole. [Chuckles] ...I planned to raise my family here. 

**CODSWORTH:** You still can, sir. 

**NATHAN:** I... [Sighs] I know. But there's just...there's a lot I'm still getting used to right now. It's a little jarring seeing my hometown as a battlefield. I need to focus when I'm out there.

**CODSWORTH:** I understand.

**NATHAN:** Codsworth, the last thing I ever want to do is forget her. It means a lot to me knowing I can talk to someone who knew how special she was. Just...maybe save it for when we're not in a place we're likely to get shot...or mauled. Okay? 

**CODSWORTH:** ...Oh, Mister Rook... I am so sorry if I caused you any grief. 

**NATHAN:** It's okay, pal. You...you didn't know. I didn't even know it was bothering me until yesterday. But I need you to lighten up. If you need to tell me stupid light bulb jokes every 50 yards instead, that'd be better... In fact, I kinda like light bulb jokes. 

**CODSWORTH:** I will adjust my programming accordingly.

**NATHAN:** You can just do that? Heh. I envy you.

**CODSWORTH:** Of course... How many robots does it take to change a light bulb?

**NATHAN:** I dunno...

**CODSWORTH:** One. Because robots never make a mistake...a mistake...a mistake...a mistake...

**NATHAN:** [Laughs] Not bad. [Background noises] Okay, I'm heading out now.

**CODSWORTH:** Shall I accompany you, sir?

**NATHAN:** Not today. I want to try and get into Cambridge, and I can go faster alone.

**CODSWORTH:** I understand...

**NATHAN:** Look, Codsworth. It's not personal. None of this is. I just... I need to be _this_ guy right now: G.I. Jackass... Nora _hated_ it when I got that way, so I really tried not to around her, but I need him front and center right now. This is the guy that's gonna survive. Like him or not, this is the guy that gets shit done. And this is the guy that's gonna find Shaun. The other guy—the charming, sensitive, grieving young widower—he doesn't even wanna get out of bed right now. 

**CODSWORTH:** A shame... I'm quite fond of him. 

**NATHAN:** Yeah, me too. But right now, that guy's taking a back seat and letting me drive... 'Cause he wants his son back, too.

**CODSWORTH:** Very well... Do you have any instructions for me while you're gone?

**NATHAN:** I dunno, _clean_ something. Maybe see if you can find a couple chairs or a sofa to put in here. Hang something on the walls. Go nuts. Just something to make it a little homier in here. Less...gas station-y-er.

**CODSWORTH:** So...we won't be returning to your home in Sanctuary, then?

**NATHAN:** No, Codsworth. I think this is gonna be home, now. Besides, I've always wanted to live somewhere with a giant rocket on the roof. The HOA would've _never_ gone for that back in Sanctuary.

**CODSWORTH:** I can't imagine why.

**NATHAN:** Aw c'mon, it's so cool! See if you can find some plastic flamingos, too. I've always wanted a lawn full of those. Maybe a gnome or two.

**CODSWORTH:** Surely, you can't be serious.

**NATHAN:** Hey, you don't gnome me! And stop calling me Shirley. [Laughs] All right. Fine. I'm outta here.

**CODSWORTH:** Do be careful, sir.

**NATHAN:** Don't worry. I'll be gnome for dinner. [Laughs]

**CODSWORTH:** [Audible sigh]

**// End Transcription**

* * *

It's not easy explaining the duality of human nature to a bucket of bolts with a personality that was made by some British actor standing in a recording studio.

**_"Take 22. Sir Olivier, we want to really hear 900 years' worth of British snobbery and general loathing in that sigh. Your motivation is that you're clearly better than everyone else."_**  

Not exactly a fair contest, though. Artificial British stuffiness versus genuine home-grown American jackassery? USA takes the gold again...

  


* * *


	16. Boy Meets Ghoul

###### Boy Meets Ghoul

It occurred to me that the house in Sanctuary had been Codsworth's home  _way_ longer than it had ever been mine. I felt a little sorry taking him out of his comfort zone. (Do robots  _have_  comfort zones?)

I told him to meet me around dusk at the old drive-in theater we'd cleared out the other day so I wouldn't have to come  _all_ the way back to the Red Rocket, and that seemed to give him something to look forward to. But I'm rethinking my position on going back to Sanctuary. In fact, I may never go outside  _again_.

I met my first ghoul today. Several of them in fact. Not a great first impression... or second, or third, or fourth. Preston had told me about pre-war irradiated humans, but I thought he'd been full of it. Turns out, no...I don't think Preston knows how to lie. What he did do, though, was completely fail to impress upon me how  _pants-shittingly terrifying_  they are.

I had just cleared out another den of raiders down near Lexington. They are quickly becoming my least favorite people in the world, but they manage to steal some decent equipment which I don’t mind stealing back. I was looting one of the raiders' nests when I heard a lung-rattling throaty growl like someone was clearing their throat after sucking on a tractor tailpipe for a week. I turned and saw a cluster of them shambling nearby.

I just stood there and blinked in disbelief a moment, my brain refusing to connect the dots. Rotted, glowing, emaciated flesh, and tattered remnants of clothing barely hanging on their bones...quite  _literally_ , animated corpses. They shouldn't even be able to exist let alone walk.

Then I realized they were shambling their way toward me.  _Fast_.

The leader lunged and swiped at me, and I'm pretty sure I screamed like a little girl. I wasted a whole fusion cell taking down three of them— _way_ overkill, kinda like using a whole can of bug spray on one roach (well these days that wouldn’t be unusual)——but... wow. They're fast  _and_ they’re tough. Faster and tougher than any humans I've ever heard of.

Someone forgot to tell them radiation sickness doesn't work like that.

I was still scratching my head over that when I picked up a woman's voice on my Pip-Boy. It was a distress signal coming from the Cambridge Police Department: casualties, low on supplies, need backup or evac, yadda yadda...

Not that I'm yadda-yadda-ing a distress call. It just sounded like a situation I'm  _very_ familiar with.

A heavy fog had rolled in after I took care of the ghouls, and I completely lost all directional sense. I couldn't make out any landmarks. I passed the Lone Star Taco Bar, which was always a  _figurative_ hole in the wall, and is now a  _literal_  hole in the wall, but couldn't remember if I was east of "Hahvahd Yahd where we pahked our cah" or west of it, and finally I stumbled on Kendell Hospital where Shaun was born and furiously shoved  _that_ memory from my head when I heard gun fire and yelling down at the end of the street.

When I got there, the scene was pretty grim——three soldiers locked in a losing argument against a never-ending zombie conga line. I don't even know where all the ghouls were coming from, but it made the handful I took down a few blocks over look like I'd been picking off grandparents in a retirement home.

One guy was already down and looked like he'd been beaten with a shovel... er, a really  _ugly_ shovel. A woman, who I guessed was the voice I'd heard on the distress call, was tending to him. The last soldier was all decked out in Power Armor and doing a hell of a job trying to keep the horde from the other two, but still far from having a great time. So, I jumped into the ring and started blasting anything that didn’t look human.

When my gag reflex settled from the funk of fetid, burning flesh, I spoke to the guy in Power Armor. He introduced himself as Paladin Danse with the Brotherhood of Steel. I have no idea what idea a "Paladin" is, but I can certainly recognize a chain of command when I see a one. He didn't show a ton of gratitude, though——in fact he threatened to kick me off the compound if I didn't give him a straight answer as to why I was there. Typical Tinman...

If the Army was a high school——and many times, it sure as hell felt like it——then my unit was the Chess Club, and the Power Armor barbarians were the football team. They put the “special” in Special Forces.  _Tin men_ ,  _tin heads_ ,  _tin cans_ , and  _trash cans_  we called them... when we were feeling  _nice_. I know they had equally flattering names for us, too.

We worked together when we had to, and we did it well. That was the point of the armed forces: everyone had a job, every unit was an asset, and ultimately, we were all working toward the same goal. But if something went wrong there were plenty of fingers pointed in both directions. Fortunately, we didn’t rely on one another very often. At least, not directly.

But this  _Paladin_ seems reasonably satisfied with my skills and asked if I’d join him on a recon mission. I'm not sure what to make of this Brotherhood of Steel——it sounds even more hokey and make-believe than the Minutemen——but they’re at least speaking my language. A little favor now could lead to a huge payback later when the rest of this Brotherhood shows up. Hell, even if this "Brotherhood of Steel" is five guys with a high-powered water gun, it's five guys plus a water gun more than I had this morning. I get a feeling it's a little more than that though. They have a logo and everything.

So here I am now, holed up inside a police station...where Dad always said I'd end up. Though I don't think this is what he meant. Oh, Dad, if only you could see me now...

...you'd probably still find a way to be disappointed in me.

All right. Enough downtime. Let's go get this over with.

* * *


	17. All Thrust, No Vector - Part I

###### Part I of V

Turns out our mission was over at ArcJet Systems. Scribe Haylen needed something to boost the beacon from the top of the police station so they can radio their superiors, and Danse was convinced we'd find something at ArcJet to help them out. I figure we'd be lucky to find them a piece of tinfoil and a coat hanger they could maybe fashion into rabbit ears, but I agreed to go look around with him.

Mostly because I'd always wanted to go in there, especially after hearing they were contracted for the Mars Shot Program. I was even thinking about submitting a resume, since I'd had security clearance. I was slowly reaching the conclusion that I had to do something after retirement to keep from getting bored...and keep Nora from strangling me. I suppose a real paycheck would've also been nice.

(Jesus,  _bottle caps_ ,  _ **really???**_ I'm still not over that.)

So, this Brotherhood of Steel probably  _not_ just five guys with a water gun. It sounds like they have some serious firepower. Is this what became of the armed forces? And yet they have ranks like "Paladin," and "Knight," and "Elder." Who the hell came up with all this King Arthur bullshit? Had to have been the Marines. Hip hip, Oorah.

"Scribe" seems to be a title that's sorta halfway between civilian contractor and Chief Warrant Officer. Haylen kinda reminds me of Cooper, if you stand across the room and squint really hard. Not in how she looks, necessarily, just in that way she doesn't take anyone's crap. Sam could roast you like a Thanksgiving turkey and be gone out of the room before you even realized it. Haylen hasn't quite reached that master level of snark, but she can definitely take care of herself. She's all right.

This Knight Rhys, though... Ugh. Reminds me of every asshole that enlisted just so they could play with guns and have a reason to rack up their kill count. "All thrust, no vector," we used to say about them, like an untied balloon full of hot air that randomly bounces around the room before it fizzles out.

Not entirely sure what to make of Danse yet. I think he's like most guys I served with——enlisted because he didn't know what else to do with his life. Couldn't see himself sitting behind a desk, or sitting at all, really.

But after a few years of old-fashioned Army structure and brainwashing, many of them became great soldiers, decent commanders, even officers if they decided to crack open a book or two and use their brains. Or they became like Rhys: just there to collect a paycheck and a pension, bossing subordinates around that he'll eventually kowtow to in a few years because he has no other skill. All thrust, no vector.

So,  _aaaaanyway_... ArcJet.

We booked it over to the ArcJet HQ, clearing a path of raiders and mutant bugs along the way. I didn't want to tell Danse he was probably drawing attention to us by stomping around in all that armor, but a little late for that now. Besides, it sure as hell came in handy later.

I pulled off a few ace shots that surprised me just as much as it did him. Firearms are a part of the job in the Service——never thought much else about them one way or the other. They were just as important and relevant as any of our other tools. I was the okayest gunman in my unit: I got the job done, but I was definitely not a sharpshooter. Hell, sometimes my method was more "spray and pray" than skill depending on the day, but I think I'm getting better now with every shot. I'm certainly getting a lot of practice.

When we got to ArcJet, Danse stood there a moment sizing me up. "You're pretty skilled with that laser rifle," he said.

"Thanks! You're not so bad yourself," I remarked. I knew he wasn't paying me a compliment, and my smartass wisecrack only annoyed him further.

He frowned, those heavy eyebrows almost knitting themselves into one big unibrow. "That's because I've been conditioned by the Brotherhood to be so, and I've had years of field experience since. I can also spot someone who's been formally trained in combat when I see them. What's your story,  _civilian_?"

The way he'd said "civilian" struck a nerve with me. He was dressing me down and trying to put me in place in one handwave, something I never took to very well. I'd take a CO who yells exactly what they feel in my face at me than this passive-aggressive bullshit, and I wasn't in the mood to take it from this... _kid_. I dropped what Nora used to call my "banquet smile," the one I reserved for dinner parties with her attorney flunkies, and let my inner old-fart take over. At 245 years old, I think I’m entitled.

"Look...first of all, my name is Nathan Rook, and until we establish a different relationship, I prefer you call me by either of those, not 'wastelander,' or 'vault dweller,' or 'civilian,' or anything else. Second of all, this _ain't_ my first rodeo. Your Brotherhood's  _modus operandi_  used to be my Tuesday, so you're just gonna have to trust me to watch your six, and I'll trust you not shoot mine. When we're done, I promise I'll answer any questions you have——in fact, I have a few of my own. But now is not the time if you want that transmitter,  _Paladin_."

He blinked hard like he was trying to hold back a sneeze. Even though I have no idea where a Paladin is in their chain of command, I'm guessing it's high enough that it'd been a while since someone had pulled rank on him. I could be just as much of an asshole as any drill sergeant if I needed to—you don't get where I was by always being the nice guy. And I fell right back into it like it was, well, Tuesday.

"Very well...Rook. I'm glad we agree. And since you seem to be familiar with our protocol, we'll do just fine as long as you follow my orders. We do this my way, by the book. No heroics. Is that understood?"

"Loud and clear, sir," I said. This was definitely coming back to me. Everything you learn about being successful in any hierarchy you learn on the playground as a kid with three games: Simon Says, Red Light/Green Light, and Dodgeball. You just gotta figure out which game you're playing one minute to the next——and sometimes concurrently.

So, having dodged _that_ ball, Simon said, "Very well, then, follow me," giving me a green light to move, and in through the front door we went. See? Child's play.

Now, we just had to avoid being "it." And any soldier at any rank knows that's definitely a game you _don't_ want to lose. 

_(to be continued...)_

* * *


	18. All Thrust, No Vector - Part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Synth, You Ran Away...  
> I've logged 2,808 hours in Fallout 4. Know who does that? A damn synth, that's who!
> 
> ArcJet continues...

###### Part II of V

It was a wreck inside. Kind of sad to see, really. It's as if the moment the bombs were announced, everyone collectively went nuts and said, "Well, I've always wanted to dump everything in my trashcan onto the floor. Except this desk fan...that belongs safely locked away in this file cabinet. Next to this hot plate. And this spoon." WTF.

Can't blame them, though. Not sure how mentally stable I would've been in the days following the attack, either. Not sure how mentally stable I am now.

Danse felt the need to provide commentary and a history lesson as we walked through the main lobby. "It was corporations like ArcJet that put the last nail in the coffin for mankind. They exploited technology for their own gains, pocketing the cash and ignoring the damage they'd done."

Well,  _yeah_. If you wanna be all  _pessimistic_ about it. It was also corporations like ArcJet, Lockreed, and WesTek——government defense contractors——that kept us in the game as long as they did. What did he think, _the military_ was out there on the front line building our own tanks, and vertibirds, and weapons? Who does he think made the armor he's cocooned himself in? Our soldiers were great at finding uses for our toys, and our engineers were even better at keeping them up and running, but we sure as hell weren't the ones that designed and put them together. You're talking about a bunch of adult children who can’t keep a straight face long enough to get through the phrase, "Insert tab A into slot B." We're lucky we could strike a tent. (Though in our defense, some of those tents were unnecessarily complicated.)

I didn't bother to correct his history, though. Didn't seem worth it.

We walked into a room that had a pile of robot parts on the floor. ArcJet's defense systems had already been cooked. Danse assured me it wasn't one of his Brotherhood buddies, and said it was the work of "Institute synths."

"Uh...what's the Institute?" I asked him.

"They're a group of scientists who went underground when the Great War started. They've spent the last few decades littering the Commonwealth with their technological nightmares."

"Uh-huh," I said. "And what's a synth?"

"They're an abuse of technology created by the Institute. Abominations meant to 'improve' upon humanity. They're unacceptable. They simply can't be allowed to exist."

"You, uh...didn't actually answer my question."

He sighed in irritation. "Synth, as in  _synthetic_. They're machines built to emulate humans in every way."

I looked at the pile of robot corpses littering the floor. During my brief but ambitious stint into robotics, I remember running across the term "Uncanny Valley". I didn't sleep for a week. Many examples were nightmarish, most were just laughable, but it was clear the industry had a long way to go before machines could _emulate_ humans, let alone be _mistaken_ for humans. "So, synths are just robots? Doesn't sound so bad. Kinda creepy, maybe..."

"That doesn't even begin to cover it. They are extremely dangerous. The earlier generation synths are little more than a collection of wires and screws. But the later generations you could literally mistake for your own mother."

"My mother's been dead for a really long time," I said. "I think I'd suspect something right away if I saw her again."

He grunted. "I meant——"

"I know, I know, you meant 'figuratively'. No worries. Common faux pas. Used to drive my mom crazy, as a matter of fact. She was an English teacher...used to correct me _all_ the time."

He gave me a strange look. I shrugged breezily. Hey, the gun comes attached to the whole package. I make no apologies.

"Just...remain vigilant and keep your eyes open," he said tiredly.

"Right. And shoot at anything that looks like my mom," I nodded. "Does the Brotherhood also offer therapy?"

" _Moving out_ ," he grumbled irritably, but I thought I saw a tiny hint of smirk before he turned away.

* * *

A few more rooms later, we came to a lab with a couple of functional terminals in it and a sealed door. "Lemme guess... One of  _those_ probably opens  _that_ ," I said. "That's usually how these things go."

"See if you can get it open. I'm going to reconnoiter the area."

"I'm on it."

I checked the first terminal. I'd barely turned on the screen when right in front of me was an unprotected password in an email chain.

A tiny little headache jabbed the back of my eyeball as I read that. I sighed loudly and mumbled a string of curse words under my breath as I moved on to the next terminal. Granted, it made my job a lot easier, but that’s not a good thing. God knows what sort of sensitive information had been stored in these terminals. This was sloppy. I hope their Sys Admin is rotting in Hell.

There was a globe sitting next to the terminal on the desk. I reached over and idly spun it while I waited for the CRT to warm up. I wondered how accurate it was anymore. It gave me something else to brood about for a moment.

"What is it?" Danse asked from across the room.

I grinned at him. Danse wasn't impressed. "Was that supposed to be funny?"

"Yes. Tremendously. One of my personal best, in fact. My heart is breaking that you're not at least a little amused."

He rolled his eyes. "Do you take  _anything_ seriously?"

"I take  _a lot_ of things seriously. Doesn't mean I've lost my sense of humor. Come on, Paladin. You're a commander——you had to have been caught in some tough spots where a little gallows humor between comrades helped boost morale a bit. It's saved my life more than once."

"How so?" he asked skeptically.

"I haven't climbed into a bathtub and slit my wrists yet."

He was quiet a moment as I examined the terminal and tried to page through to the door security controls, banging the keys a little harder than I wanted to. The Enter key wouldn’t press down all the way, and I was dreading having to pry it off to clean it.

"Interesting philosophy," he said, flatly. "What are you doing now? Do you have that password yet?"

"Password isn't the problem," I said. "This keyboard's really sticky and I'm really, _really_ ,  _ **really**_ trying not to think about why."

He snorted. "Now you know why I always wear Power Armor."

I chuckled. "Okay, see? That was pretty good."

"I’m glad you were entertained, but I  _don't_ want to be here all week. Hurry up."

A few overaggressive keystrokes later, and I finally got to the door controls. "All right, all right. Hold yer horses...or whatever it is people hold these days."

Well, it wasn't a new car, but it wasn't a goat either. I kinda wish it had been. On the plus side, I got to meet my first synth today. I'm becoming quite the socialite. On the minus side, they weren't any friendlier than ghouls. They ambushed us, and that's when things lit up. Literally.

Ladies and gentlemen, for your viewing pleasure, let the laser light show begin...

Soooo, that's a synth. I gotta agree with Danse here, "creepy" doesn't even begin to cover it. What's scarier than a rogue psychopath who's motivated by rage, addiction, and determination? Or a ravenous animal driven by insatiable thirst and territory? One that isn't. One that isn't motivated by _anything_. They have _nothing_ to lose. They don’t even know what loss is. Codsworth has more character in one eyeball stalk than a whole squadron of these things.

What's even worse to me, though, is that it was obvious these synths were disposable. Suicide drones. Some of them looked like they'd been pretty beat up long before we got in their way and never repaired. Why would you do that? Where do these things come from? What kind of resources are needed to make one?

What is the _value_  of a synth?

You wanna talk about the last nail in the coffin for humanity, it was our willingness to just throw anything anyway for the next new widget.

Unfortunately, they weren't handing out new planets.

_(to be continued...)_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "I'll see you on the dark side of the moon..."
> 
> Once I lined up all those shots in the "laser light show" series, I got a very Pink Floyd vibe from it. Especially that one with that shot streaking right over Nathan's thigh. That was a once-in-a-lifetime shot, which is why he isn't wearing the same armor as the rest of the ArcJet mission, because it's an older shot. I tried, and tried, and _tried_ to get a newer one for continuity and could never come even close to that coolness. 
> 
> So feel free to play "Dark Side of the Moon" in the background while reading this. It's pretty much what I listened to while writing it, too. I'm not the biggest Pink Floyd fan ever, but they sure do know how to create a mood. :)


	19. All Thrust, No Vector - Part III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things heat up at ArcJet. 
> 
> Posting a few days early because I’m sick of seeing it in my drafts.

  
  


###### Part III of V

Deeper into ArcJet we went, dodging the oddly placed turret here and there until we reached the Engine Core room. There it was, the Mars Shot XMB booster rocket. As I stood under it, I felt like a 10-year old kid again, dreaming about spaceships and alien planets and meeting new lifeforms. Even after everything I'd agonized and endured and mourned over in the last week, I still couldn't help but get excited and a little choked-up over it.

It reminded me of a quote by Lyndon Johnson I was going to use in my speech. He said,

"The guns and the bombs, the rockets and the warships, are all symbols of human failure."

——Lyndon B. Johnson

A little too on the nosy, in retrospect, considering I was planning to use that quote the day the bombs fell... And like Danse blaming ArcJet for putting the last nail in the coffin for mankind, Johnson had a point.

But what I was _going_ to say, is that they also symbolize ingenuity, curiosity, collaboration, and perseverance.

Robert Goddard didn't tinker with rockets because he wanted to blow something up. From when he was a little kid staring up at the sky through a crappy telescope right here in Boston, Mass, to the middle of the desert in B.F.E. New Mexico where he did most of his research, he hoped to send something he'd built to a place humans had never been before. He wanted us to explore. He wanted us to learn. He wanted us to be _better_.

Goddard was also extremely secretive to the point of paranoia about sharing any of his work, so he must’ve fully comprehended the _potential_ applications. Nothing is ever as black and white as it seems. People are far more complicated than that.

Danse came over to me. "Rook?" he said. "What is it?"

I looked over at him and pointed up at the huge cone. "It's a rocket," I said. I could  _feel_ him scowl at me through his helmet——he’ll either learn to stop asking me that, or I’ll die trying him.

I offered a humble smile to show I wasn't completely out of my gourd. "Space flight was a big interest of mine. I thought we'd actually be able to pull it off within my lifetime. I always thought it'd be cool to die on another planet...just, y'know. Not on impact."

Another beat, then he cautiously changed the subject, speaking slowly and annunciating and punctuating his words carefully, trying not to upset the crazy person. "The access elevator is _out_. We need to get _back up_ to the _top_. Since you seem to be...competent—— _technically_ ——can you look around and see if there's a way to restore the power?"

His patronizing tone and his backhanded half-compliment had me fighting to keep a straight face. Danse either has a far deeper sense of humor than he lets on, or he’s just incredibly socially awkward. Or both. I suppose those aren’t mutually exclusive. It felt familiar, though. It felt good... It took me right back to recon missions with my own squad in Anchorage. Rook’s Crooks. The only thing quicker than the quips and the riffs were our hands.

"I got it, I got it," I grumbled, turning with a full-body eye-roll, and trudged off down the access tunnel to the engine control room.

I found a terminal in the back that interfaced with the auxiliary power and hacked my way in to reset the fusion generator. The system hummed to life as the lights blinked on. "Tah daaah," I announced to the empty room. Quick hands, indeed. But almost immediately, I heard a loud commotion back toward the assembly bay.

I ran back to the control room and, to my horror, saw Danse surrounded by synths through the window. He was firing as fast as he could. As soon as one went down, another two would take its place. In mere seconds, there were already more than I could count.

I ran down the corridor ready to jump in and lend him an assist. A synth saw me running toward the open doorway and fired at me. I had to duck behind the wall again to avoid getting a laser blast to my face. I readied with my rifle and peeked around the corner in time to see the synth disintegrate from a hit from Danse’s gun just as it was lining up another shot at me, and as it vanished and dropped its weapon, a stray spark ignited the rocket fuel residue on the ground. Suddenly, a huge wall of fire flared up and blocked my exit to the assembly chamber. I had to dive back into the hall to avoid the flashover and flying debris and dismembered synth part or two.

"I can't get through!" I yelled, not even sure if Danse could hear me over the commotion.

I couldn’t see him but I could hear multiple laser rifles discharging. What these synths lacked in fortitude or firepower, they made up in sheer numbers. "Do something! _Anything!_ " I heard him shout. "Push buttons! I don’t care!"

I felt like I was moving in slow motion and everything else was on high-speed. Every _millisecond_ it took me to run back down the corridor to the control room was a whole _minute_ too late. I remember thinking what I did after that was a terrible idea, but that every other idea I had was just as bad as this one.

I had seen a button in the center of the control console. If I’d stopped to really think about what I was doing, I would’ve chickened out.

So, I punched it...

...and the enormous 200-year old rocket roared to life...

...and vaporized everything in its path.

Time sped up for me again but slowed to a crawl for everything else. The noise was deafening. The burn seemed to go on FOREVER. Long enough for me to go waaay past worrying about Danse and straight on into being angry with him for having the nerve to tell  _ME_  "no heroics" while he was currently standing under a shower of flames, then wonder if the terms of my assignment included getting that Deep Range Transmitter back to his unit even if he didn’t make it, and then feeling terrible for even thinking that because  _OF COURSE_  I would, and picturing myself breaking the news to Haylen and Rhys, telling them that it was an honor to serve with their Paladin, and that he seemed like a great soldier and a leader, and he died a hero, and full circle back to angry with him again because _I HATE THAT PART OF MY JOB_ , and by the time the I was able to leave the control room,  _I’d known Danse for five fucking years_!

Finally, the rocket burned out.

I booked it over to the heap of Power Armor kneeling in the corner. The heat radiating off the metal suit was still toasty but not the blistering temperature I’d expected.

"OH MY GOD! Are you all right? Can you move? Say something! Danse...?"

"I’m...all right. Got...cooked...by those flames. Fortunately, my Power Armor saved me."

"Holy  _shit_! I am so sorry! I didn't know what else to do——"

"You did good. Quick thinking."

"I can’t believe you’re still alive!"

"I’m fine."

"You need a stimpak——"

"I’m okay——"

"No,  _dammit_ , I’m not _ASKING_ you, I'm _TELLING_ you." I held one out in front of him. " _Take it._ "

He paused a moment, his breath less labored but still obviously weak. "My Power Armor has an automatic medic pump modification. It’s, undoubtedly, why I’m still talking to you right now," he said slowly, "Rook. Keep it.  _I’ll be fine._ "

I contemplated stabbing it into him anyway. I put it away again when I couldn't see a convenient way to jab it into him through that armor. I held out my hand to him. "Let me help you up. It’s the least I can do for trying to deep fry you."

He made a noise of protest but took my hand anyway. It was more a peace-offering than an assist. He was way too heavy in that armor; he would’ve yanked me right to the ground on my face if he’d really needed help standing. He stood up full height in front of me and dropped my hand immediately, the creepy, expressionless stare of his helmet vaguely pointed in my direction. Another reason I hate Power Armor.

"Take off your helmet a sec," I said.

"What?  _Why_?"

" _Indulge me_. I wanna make sure I’m not talking to a skeleton under there."

"You  _can’t_ be serious."

" _After the week I’ve had, I actually am_." 

"Oh, for crying out——" Danse removed his helmet and glared down at me. "——loud. Satisfied?" I stood in front of him and looked up at his face, studying him carefully. His skin was a shade redder than before, and the end of his nose was peeling. I felt another pang of guilt at that. Even with an auto-stim and radiation shield, the blast must've _scorched_ him inside there. I studied the map of scars on his face——a _lot_  of scars, too——but nothing that looked new. His eyes were a bloodshot and weary, but he was still alert and responsive, and eventually his glare gave way to something a little more hospitable...if not a bit self-conscious.

But he visibly loosened up during our little one-on-one time-out, which is exactly what I was hoping to do. Just a little breather between near-death experiences. Is that too much to ask?

"Rook?" he said, noticeably calmer. Maybe a tad amused, and a smidge uncomfortable at my scrutinizing stare. Good.

I shrugged noncommittally and gave him my official diagnosis. "Well, Paladin. I'm reasonably convinced you're not a talking skull."

He rolled his eyes and sighed wearily, stepping away from me. "Oh, _good_. I'm relieved we were able to clear that up."

"Or not  _just_  a talking skull, anyway. I assume you  _do_  have one of those, too."

"Can we  _go_ now?"

"A rather thick one, I would imagine," I muttered as I headed to the service elevator and punched the call button.

" _Watch it_ , Rook," he said, jamming his helmet back on. "Don’t get too familiar. Let’s keep this professional."

We entered the elevator, and as the doors closed, I shook my head slowly. "That’s _just like you_ to say something like that, too."

_(to be continued...)_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have one major regret in my life.
> 
> In my junior and senior year of highschool, and my first two years at community college in Florida, I belonged to a group called SEDS - Students for the Exploration and Development of Space. [No, I'm not kidding](http://seds.org/)...it's a real thing. Look it up. Tell your kids about it.
> 
> My hometown is Roswell, NM, where Goddard did his rocket experiments, so I have always been interested in rockets and aerospace. (Also, there was this [UFO thing](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Roswell_UFO_incident) that happened there you _might_ have heard of. Not terribly popular. Moving on.)
> 
> SEDS was the one club in my entire education where I immediately fit right in. We were space cadets in almost every sense of the phrase. We talked about our love of space, and rockets, and astronomy, and all things that went pow-zoom-to-the-moon. We regularly downloaded and studied weather info from NOAA satellites. We went to air shows. We went to astronomy meets in the middle of nowhere in the middle of night to view gas giants and red dwarf stars through high-powered telescopes. We met and talked with astronauts and a cosmonaut. We toured aerospace facilities. We also had some sponsors who were NASA employees that had some really good connections, so we got to go on a super special NASA employees' family open house field trip for a backstage tour at Kennedy Space Center.
> 
> Oh, wait. No. _I_ didn't. I had to _work_.
> 
> I had a crappy retail job at crappy Service Merchandise, and I couldn't get the day off because it was a Saturday, which I always worked because I was always in class during the week, so I decided to be a responsible adult and _not_ call in sick, which would've been pretty obvious anyway since I'd already asked for it off and had been denied, and probably would've gotten me fired if I had called in, so I sat out. I mean, _whatever..._ it's not like they were going to go see a Space Shuttle launch or anything anyway, which up to that point, every one I'd ever tried to see in person had been cancelled at the last minute.
> 
> No, the assholes did better than that.
> 
> My dozen or so friends that didn't have stupid jobs were touring the actual enormous Shuttle Assembly Building at Kennedy. Where the actual Space Shuttle was undergoing preparation for an upcoming launch (sorry...I don't remember which orbiter it was). They stood _right under_ the actual main engine nozzle. They touched the actual fucking scaffolding the actual fucking Shuttle orbiter stood in, the fuckers.
> 
> Meanwhile, I was dealing with grumpy customers in my stupid retail job that I got fired from like three months later, anyway, 'cause I hated it.
> 
> This was before cell phone cameras (or cell phones at large, either). They were allowed to take pictures with their film cameras, but nobody in the group did because they forgot to.
> 
> THEY. FORGOT. TO.
> 
> Twelve friggin’ people were so awed by the site, not one of them thought to pull out a camera and snap a goddamn picture of it. Hard to imagine that in our current cell phone, 24/7 connected, social media-addicted world. Basically, it was so cool, a dozen people lost their minds, so I have no idea what it looked like or what they saw. All I could do was listen to their stories and imagine. And seethe. And kick myself for the rest of eternity.
> 
> I pictured it a lot like the shot of Nathan I took up there staring up at the Mars Shot booster rocket. In a really lame sense, Fallout 4 helped me capture a tiny, itty bitty, minuscule piece of that experience. Nowhere near the real deal, not by a long shot. But I couldn't help get just a little excited and little choked up at it anyway during the ArcJet mission (a little Mary-Sue author self-insertion with Nathan up there, waxing poetic and romantic about spaaaaace [#SorryNotSorry]). 
> 
> I can't say any other game has even gotten me _close_ to that moment. Just one of the 1001 reasons I love this game.
> 
> So when my time comes to meet my Maker and He/She/They ask me on my Judgement Day if I have any regrets, it was that I sacrificed the coolest day of my life to try and be a grown-up. Maybe They’ll give me brownie points for that...sort of like saying my biggest fault is, "I work too hard" in a job interview (pro tip: don’t ever say that). I’ll also tell Them I certainly learned an important lesson about opportunities...and to get the _fuck_ out of retail.
> 
> Until then, I keep a nice little file quarantined away from the rest of my game _just_ of the ArcJet mission so I can go back to the assembly room whenever I want and stand under that rocket.
> 
> At least _I_ didn't forget to take a bloody picture.


	20. All Thrust, No Vector - Part IV

###### Part IV of V

At the top of the assembly shaft, we spotted more synths gathered in the main engineering lab. Fortunately, this time we saw them first.

I took point and crouched down low to stay out of view through the viewing window, then we charged through the corridor and pinned them in the room, giving them everything we had. Soon, the only thing that remained of the synths was the smell of burning plastic and rubber lingering in the stale air.

"Dammit! The transmitter isn’t here," Danse said standing next to one of the consoles. "Fan out and check the remains. They may have been after it as well."

"Huh. Don't you think that's a little...convenient?" I said as I moved around the room nudging things with my toe.

Danse opened a desk drawer and kicked it closed again with a little more force than I thought was necessary. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, how long has this prototype transmitter been sitting here in this derelict building? And this Institute only  _now_ cares about it when  _you_ need it, too? Kinda weird."

Danse stopped and seemed to consider this. "You...have a point."

I didn't make a big deal about it, just shrugged and went on looking. I didn't need him to freeze on me by dwelling on it, or worse yet, suspect _me_ of anything, but it certainly made me think of that one line from that one book: 

"Just because you're paranoid doesn't mean they aren't after you."

——Some Author, _That One Book_

It's becoming my mantra.

Most of the other synths had been reduced to ash. I came to the one left in the room where the Deep Range Transmitter had to be...if it was still here, at all. I looked down at the dead, naked synth, golden eyes still glowing and staring into nothing. I kept waiting for those twin rings to slide over and aim at me. I gripped my rifle a little tighter, and aiming it at its head, nudged it with my toe a few times.

"Well?" said Danse impatiently behind me.

"Yeah, yeah. I know. Make the FNG do it."

I braced myself and reached in and felt around. "Eyyyywwwwww _aaactually,_ it's not that bad," I said when I felt the device. "I mean, it's gross, don't get me wrong, but not gross like gutting a fish-gross, more like...peeling a rotten orange-gross. Don't ask me why I know that."

I stood up and held up the device, the Deep Range Transmitter, about half the size of military-grade circuit board. I turned it over in my hands——it wasn't even that heavy. One of these would've saved me from a whole lot of fucking agony, once upon a time... Maybe. Who knows. It's a prototype, so it probably won't even work anyway. "You're in luck," I said, once I realized Danse was cautiously watching me handle the device. I handed it over to him. "All  _that_ for this little box."

" _Outstanding_."

"Can we get the  _fuck_ out of here now, please?"

" _Absolutely_."

_(to be continued...)_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The quote is James Heller from _Catch 22_ , of course. Nathan doesn't necessarily remember that at the moment, and doesn't exactly have Wikipedia strapped to his wrist. Fortunately, I do.
> 
> In case you didn't catch it before in the comments, I use a mod called [Synth Overhaul - C.A.S.T.](https://www.nexusmods.com/fallout4/mods/9525), and it is so worth it. Synths are now creepy instead of borderline laughable, the author buffed their stats to make them challenging when you run into them, and their equipment is actually useful and doesn't look AS MUCH like you're wearing a toilet seat around your neck. All plusses in my book.
> 
> The first time I went into this room, I couldn't find the transmitter and had to backtrack. Like, a lot. Danse was useless. He just wandered between the same three desks over and over. This was before I knew about the [disable/markfordelete] command in the console, or being able to clip through floors and walls to look for stuff, and after reading some bug reports on it much later, it turns out it was probably just buried under multiple stacks of ash. I spent a lot of time in this room convinced I was supposed to trip some trigger that would reveal it somewhere, which of course never happened. And when I tried to leave to see if I that would advance the story, Danse yelled at me. Hmph.
> 
> ****PASSIVE-AGGRESSIVE RELOAD****
> 
> For as much time as I spent in this room, this chapter's really short, though, so I'm posting this one and the next chapter at the same time. Time to GTFO of ArcJet!


	21. All Thrust, No Vector - Part V

###### Part V of V

When we exited the facility, the sun had already set. We'd been in there longer than it felt like. I exhaled and watched my breath puff out in front of me, mildly surprised that it didn't feel colder outside. Guess this Vaultsuit is more effective at retaining body heat than it looks.

Halloween is just a couple days away, and then comes the crazy rollercoaster ride to the sudden stop at the end of the year. I stood there and wondered where I'd be by Christmas... Will I have Shaun back? Will we stay in Boston? What's left for us here anyway, except for memories and heartache? But what else is out there, even? Or is every place like  _this_ ——a desperate, desolate wasteland scarred by a single act of enmity, further eroded by apathy. And those who try to rebuild their lives and thrive and carry on are cut down by those who abandoned humanity generations ago. Is this really all that's left?

"Don't take off yet," said Danse behind me as I heard him secure the door to the facility. "I have a couple things I need to discuss with you."

I chuckled quietly to myself. "I wasn't about to," I said. Not like I had anywhere else to go.

He came around and stood in front of me, blocking my path as if to emphasize his point. Sheesh.

"Well, that could've gone smoother," he said, removing his helmet and setting it on a crate nearby, "but mission accomplished."

I shrugged. "Well...yeah. Got a little hairy there for a bit, but I thought we did all right."

"That sweep was sloppy. We were caught unprepared more than once, which is unacceptable."

"You can't plan for every detail in a recon, Danse. Part of the point is to assess the unknown. You can analyze and organize and devise until you think you've thought of every contingent, but planning comes at a cost, too: at some point, you're also risking your window of opportunity. If you’d waited any longer, that transmitter would've been gone forever——it damn near _was_ ——and this would’ve all been for nothing. What matters is how prepared and confident _you_ are, and how well you work with your team and trust them not to fall to pieces when things go sideways. And, despite a few... _sideways moments_...I think we worked pretty well together."

He nodded and seemed to pick up a little bit from that. He looked like a man who'd been _giving_ too many pep-talks of his own lately, and had heard too few in return. I knew the feeling...

"Spoken like a true professional," he said, with a forlorn but genuine smile. " _Semper Paratus_ , 'Always Ready.' United States Coast Guard."

"'Be prepared'," I said. "Boy Scouts of America Handbook."

He chuckled and nodded. "The important thing is we secured the device and made it out alive. I don't think I would have been as successful alone without your help." Then he ceremoniously held out the rifle he'd been using toward me. "As compensation, I'd like you to have this. I think you'll find it useful. It's my own personal modification of the standard Brotherhood Laser Rifle."

...which was a modification of the old Army issue AER9 laser rifle, like the one I carried for more than half my career...still even painted the Army's trademark ugly, drab olive green. I didn't examine it too hard——that saying about gift horses, and all——but could tell just by handling it that it had a studier stock and a way better scope than I'd been able to find, so far.

"Wow, this looks...almost new." I looked back up at Danse. "Are you sure you don't need it?" We weren't out of the woods yet, so to speak. We still had to get back to the station.

"This isn't the only weapon I have at my disposal. Brotherhood soldiers always carry a backup."

I looked down at it again and noticed an engraving etched into the titanium barrel:  _Righteous Authority_. Heh. Cute. I wondered if Danse had come up with that. I looked back up at him. He wore a tight smile and held his chin up, obviously proud of his own handiwork. Yeah...he  _definitely_ came up with that name himself.

"If you're sure... Good weapons have been really hard to come by out here. I've had to scrap and glue together what I can pick off raiders——not exactly top-of-the-line. This is...nice. Thank you."

"May it serve you well in battle,  _civilian_."

Oh, _Christ!_ We were back to  _that_ again. My inner old-fart raised his cane once more. "Come off it, Danse. _Really_? Enough with the 'civilian' crap. I've been doing this longer than——"

He smirked knowingly and held up his hand to cut me off. "Calm down, Rook. That's what else I wanted to talk to you about."

I snapped my mouth shut again. He  _knew_ that'd get a rise out of me, and I felt like an idiot for taking the bait. But it set me up nicely for the next wind-up and pitch. I should've seen this coming, and I felt like a sucker. "Ohhh?" I said, feigning interest.

"I wanted to make you a proposal," he said. "We had a lot thrown at us back there. Our op could have ended in disaster, but you kept your cool and handled it like a soldier. There's no doubt in my mind that you've got what it takes. The way I see it, you have a choice: you could spend the rest of your life wandering from place to place, trading an extra hand for a meager reward. Or, you could join the Brotherhood of Steel and make your mark on the world. What do you say?"

I fought to keep a poker face. Danse certainly needed to work on his sales pitch, but it was a little more welcoming than the first time I did this many, many, _many, many, many_ moons ago.

But I'm not 18 anymore. In fact, the Brotherhood must be desperate, because I'd be too old for the Army to recruit, now—— _physiologically_ , that is. 35 used to be the cut-off, so I'd only have missed it by a couple of weeks, but still... There's a reason they don't want you to start too old. It's hard to teach old dogs new obedience.

Back then, I was a selfish, smartass kid just looking to get out from under my dad's thumb and outta my parents' house. I was full of hot air and vitriol, looking to prove to myself——to my dad, and to all the asshats that had ever called me a screwball, or egghead, or soft——that I knew better than all of them. I was too smart for my own good, but not smart enough to not be bad, and I was well on my way to a permanent criminal record if I wasn't careful. And I _wasn't_ that careful. Like a rocket burning fuel without a destination: all thrust, no vector.

By the time Shaun was born, that momentum had totally flipped. All vector, no thrust. Coasting in orbit, tethered to a connection stronger than anything I'd ever felt, terrifying and radiant and awesome. My life wasn't just about me anymore. The next 20 years of my life were planned out in front of me with PTA meetings, school sports, and homework assignments, birthday parties, braces...God only knew what else. And I was just fine with that.

But, now...I'm adrift again. Disoriented. That tether is cut...or at least so slackened it might as well not be there. No anchor, no vector, not even much thrust, for that matter. It's not so much that my hands aren't on the wheel, I just don't even know where the wheel _is_. Fuck.

A crow cawed as it flew overhead. I wondered if that was some kind of omen. I watched it land next to a murder of its mates on a telephone wire and stare down at us. Awfully attentive for birds. They say crows are intelligent. Maybe  _they_ know where Shaun is——

"Well?" prompted Danse.

My thoughts were wandering. I was tired. From the mission, from the wasteland, from everything. Danse was catching me off-guard and using it to his advantage. But I wasn't willing to be pressed without knowing the catch. "What would be expected of me?" I asked.

"You'd be under my command, and I'd expect you to follow orders. No more mercenary work...this is the real thing. You'd have access to advanced military weapons, as well as your own personal suit of Power Armor. Most importantly, you'd have the Brotherhood at your back...ready to spill its own blood to keep you alive."

Well, now... 'Advanced weapons,' eh? That perked me up a smidge. His pitch just got a little more convincing.

"So, how big is this Brotherhood of Steel? We talking a couple platoons? A battalion? A regiment? Do you...know the difference?"

Danse frowned, confused. " _Thousands_. We span across the entire continent and we're growing by the day. There are some minor regional differences, but we all unite under the Brotherhood's banner and code of ethics."

"Oh," I said, a little surprised. So, it's a proper army, after all. This isn't Minuteman play school.

"You've  _really_ never heard of us?" he said.

"I've, uh, been out-of-it a while."

"Ah. Well, as a Vault-dweller, I can see——"

"All right. Yeah, sure. I'd be honored to join," I interrupted. At least it'd stop his condescending Vault-dweller/wastelander/civilian bullshit.

Truth is, I like being on a team that knows what it’s doing. It felt familiar. It felt...comfortable. And I  _know_ Danse. Whether I  _like_ him or not remains to be seen, but I  _understand_ him. I served with others like him, even considered some of them my friends. Hell, at one time or another, I've _been_ him. I know which buttons I can push and how far. And if we can help each other out along the way, I'm in. I'm guessing "military intelligence" holds as much water as it ever did, but it's more than I have now.

"Excellent. That's what I wanted to hear," he said. Not exactly a fanfare, but he seemed genuinely happy I accepted. I gotta admit, it's kinda nice to still be wanted.

"Meet me back at the station and we'll go over the details."

"Where are  _you_ going?" I said. "It's getting kinda dark, and the station isn't exactly next door."

He hesitated. "I'll be there in a bit. I need to survey the area and make sure we haven't overlooked anything."

"I can stay and help," I said. "We can head back together when we're done. Strength in numbers, after all." Not that anything was looming nearby at the moment, but that tended to change fast around here.

"I have complete confidence in your skills," Danse said flatly. "I wouldn't have asked you to join us if I didn't. You possess two highly effective weapons and plenty of ammo. Just stay near the road. You found us once before on your own, you'll be fine."

I grinned at him. "I wasn't worried about _me_ ," I said. 

He rolled his eyes and sighed, but shared a little of that grudgingly amused smile of his.

"Really, Danse," I said, sincerely. "You had a close call back there. You probably need to rest, and you _definitely_ shouldn't be out here alone."

"Thank you for your concern. I mean that. But I promise. I'm fine. I just...need to clear my head a bit."

I studied him a moment to see if me giving him a few moments of awkward silent staring would change his mind, but he seemed adamant, or oblivious, or both. Still, I felt compelled to say _something_ to him. "All right...well. Don't take any candy from strangers. Remember to look both ways before crossing the street. And um...stop, drop, and roll. Whoops. Probably could've used that one earlier."

"Rook!" he boomed, looking like he couldn't decide if he should be pissed or amused.

"Yeah?" I said, trying to muster enough charm to flash him a rueful smile.

"Dismissed!"

Fine, fine. I'd pushed enough buttons today, anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The ArcJet mission was supposed to be one chapter, but ended up being 6K words, so I had to break it up. I guess the most unbelievable thing about it is when the heck did Nathan have time to write all this? Thank the Pip-Boy's (theoretical) dictation app. It comes in real handy later.
> 
> There's more dialogue from the game than I wanted to put in here, which seems lazy to me, but I couldn't see a way around it. (We'll just _blame_ the Pip-Boy's [theoretical] dictation app for that.) My intention wasn't to micro-journal everything Nathan experiences, but best laid plans and all that. As is frequently is the case, the characters had their own agenda. 
> 
> Anyway, I'm glad this mission is over! On to more soul-searching.
> 
> ###### Posing Notes:
> 
> In case you missed it in the comments where I mentioned this, I use a plugin called [FreeFlyCam](kingeric1992) by kingeric1992 found on the ENB forums. It gives you some amazing control of the third person camera, including the ability to do fly-arounds, even during dialogue and bullet-time moments, and roll the camera 360 degrees to get vertical and weird angle shots when you go into the free camera [tfc] mode. I highly, highly recommend it. I wouldn't do this without it, in fact. Word of warning, though, he only updates every other game patch or so though, so don't update the game before he updates his app or it'll break. 
> 
> I didn't do a lot of close-ups to Nathan's face at ArcJet because he was grinning like an idiot the whole time. Not exactly the mood I was aiming for. Turns not it was the [Play Comments and Head Tracking](https://www.nexusmods.com/fallout4/mods/22166) mod that was making him do that, since Danse was an ally and Nathan was feeling friendly toward him, I guess. (Get your head outta the gutter! Not that kind of friendly...well...not yet, anyway.)
> 
> I did manage to get that nice stargazing/candid camera moment up there though. I liked the idea of a closed-circuit camera still taking video somewhere and managed to catch that close-up of him, right before he smashed the butt end of his rifle in it, I assume. Say cheese.
> 
> ###### Coming Soon!
> 
> Now that Danse and Nathan have had their introduction, next chapter is a real soul-searching conversation I really wanted to be in the game. Even hinted at would’ve been nice. But it wasn’t, so I made it! 
> 
> I had _hoped_ to be to the Silver Shroud quest by Halloween, but that’s not looking to be likely. I've been working for many, many, _many_ hours on an upcoming update that's a pre-war flashback. It's 100% off-game script and I’ve been doing hours of in-game set-building, custom poses, screen shots, and even original (drawn!) artwork. There are still a few chapters I need to post between now and that point in the story, so by the time we run out of the chapters I’ve already done, I really do hope to have that done, too. It revisits the comic format, so I’m excited about that. (BTW, I really missed the comic format, so I have a few more one-shot comic scenes coming up elsewhere very soon, too!)
> 
> Basically, what I'm saying is this is far, far, _far_ from over, and I really appreciate you staying with me. Your comments and likes are a delight and encouragement, but by all means, don't feel obligated to do so. I'm just glad I get to share! 
> 
> Thank you! You guys rock!


	22. Oh, Brother(hood)!

I got back to Cambridge PD just a little before dawn. Danse just barely beat me back. Rhys was congratulating him on finding the transmitter when I walked in, and Danse turned and commended my skill and cooperation, and welcomed me as the newest member of their recon unit. Aww, shucks. I didn't even prepare a speech.

Danse asked me where I'd been, since he'd expected me back before him.

"I ran across a settler sitting alone outside on the way back. She was sick so I gave her some Rad-Away and stayed with her a few hours to make sure she was safe." Helped me get a little downtime too, once I got her to a halfway secure shelter in the back of a nearby bus. She slept, and I wrote on my Pip-Boy until I passed out. I awoke to a hastily scrawled thank-you note and a Cherry Nuka-Cola——my favorite——and that perked me right back up. Breakfast of champions. And lunatics. Surprising how closely related those two are.

"Oh, I see you managed to recruit the last bleeding heart in the whole Wasteland, too," said Rhys.

I laughed wryly. "Yeah, well. Being an asshole wasn't working out for me, so I thought I'd try something new."

That stumped him for a sec. I could almost hear the hamster wheel turning in his head, trying to figure out if I'd somehow just insulted him in there somewhere. It got him to shut up for a moment, though, which is all I'd really been aiming to do.

I thought I heard Haylen snicker softly in the background.

"Knock it off, both of you," Danse scolded. "Rhys, I expect you to work together. We have a lot to do before the Brotherhood gets here. And _you_ ," he said turning back to me, " _you_ need to understand what it means to be part of the Brotherhood. We're not soldiers of fortune. We're an army and we've dedicated our lives to uphold a strict code of ethics. If you intend to stay within our ranks, you need to obey our tenets without question."

Oh, yeah. This was _definitely_  starting to feel very familiar. "Don't worry," I said, "I've spent time in the military."

That got me a looooong pause and a round of skeptical and confused looks. I didn't offer any other explanation.

Eventually, he continued, but not without being unable to completely hide his suspicion, which is why the next part came through like a megaphone:

"I only ask for two things from anyone under my command. Honesty and respect. You fall in line, you stay in line. I give you an order, and you follow it. It's as simple as that. Now, before I release you to Haylen and Rhys for your assignments, there's one last order of business. From this moment forward, I'm granting you the rank of Initiate. This is only a training rank... I'm not permitted to grant ranks any higher than that."

_Simon Says..._

I nodded. "Fair enough."

He seemed a little surprised that I didn't protest. "Outstanding," he said, pleased.

"Ad Victoriam, Initiate," Haylen said beside me. I looked at her to gauge if this was some kind of snark-wagon she was jumping on with Rhys, but she seemed to be genuinely happy for me and proud to welcome me. I smiled warmly at her.

"He doesn't even know what that means, Haylen," rattled a noise out of Rhys' face-hole.

"To victory," I said, pre-empting Danse as I looked right at Rhys and gave him a placating smirk. Latin, 101. Or any varsity high school football team from about 1950 - 2059.

Danse blinked, surprised. "That's...correct. In our eyes, defeat is unacceptable because we're fighting for the future of mankind. Our rallying cry is more powerful than any weapon you could ever carry. Remember that."

"Yes sir."

"Now... I need you to report to Haylen or Rhys for your next assignment. Dismissed."

Haylen skipped off to one corner with her new toy. Rhys slithered off to another. I squared my shoulders and prepared to debase myself to the lower of the two life-forms first.

Alright. Simon Says, _Let's get this bullshit over with..._

* * *

A few semi-humiliating but largely forgettable minutes later, I approached Danse again. "Hey, Paladin... Is this a good time to talk?"

He turned, towering over me in that Power Armor suit. "Yes, go ahead."

"Er, maybe someplace else?" I suggested, trying to gesture subtly over my shoulder at the other two in the room.

"We don't keep secrets here, Initiate. Whatever you have to say to me you can say to them."

I glanced over at them again. Haylen was still puzzling over the transmitter, and Rhys was staring at a wall and practicing his scowl. They didn't seem terribly interested in me at all. Still...

"Uh... _no_. I  _can't_. Sir, this is a very personal matter. I have a hard enough time talking about it without having to worry about...audience participation. I need to talk to someone who can keep an open mind. Please?"

Time to find out what kind of commander Danse really was——a manager, or a leader. Any commanding officer worth their weight in caps actually cares about their team and will _always_ listen.

After an excruciatingly long three seconds, he agreed.

He instructed me to head down the end of the hallway and through the door. For a moment I wondered if he wasn't just going to kick me out and lock the door behind me. Wouldn't have been the first time one of my COs did that. But a few steps later, I heard the unmistakable hiss of Power Armor hydraulics and servos grinding behind me; I looked back and watched as Paladin Danse literally  _and_ figuratively came out of his shell. "Hold up a sec," he said. He pulled off his hood and threw it aside, raking his fingers through thick, black hair. He briefly scrubbed a gloved hand over his face, wiping away some of the grime——or at least smearing it in a  _different_  way.

Sarcasm and teasing aside, he totally caught me off guard. He was tall, dark, and  _intimidatingly_ handsome. The kind that makes you wonder if you even belonged in the same species together. And I was staring.

He glared at me. "What."

"You're...still...tall," I said like an idiot.

He rolled his eyes. "You are very observant. Thank you for informing me, but I have been aware of this for some time. Six-six, to be exact, the weather is fine. Any other obvious remarks you'd like to make?"

I tried to give him an apologetic smile. "People, uh...definitely look up to you. Heh," I said weakly, trying to save face. Specifically, saving  _my_   face from Danse's  _fist_.

There was a moment when I thought he might follow through with that, too. He definitely appeared to consider it. "Your surveillance skills are truly a gift," he finally deadpanned. "I'm sure you'll go far. Now, end of the hall and left. _Before I change my mind_."

Yeah, yeah. Don't have to tell me three times...

 

* * *

**ROBCO HOLOTAPE TRANSCRIPTION**  
CAMBRIDGE POLICE DEPARTMENT  
29 OCT 2287 06:10

// Begin Transcription

[Ambient noises. Rusty door hinges squeaking as door closes. Footsteps, shuffling around, etc.]

**Danse:**  This is as private as I'm willing to risk. There are still feral ghouls and hostiles in the area.

**Nathan:**  Yeah... This is fine. I, um...really like what you've done with it.

**Danse:**  We haven't done anything with it.

**Nathan:** I was...nevermind. Hey, do you mind if I record this? It's not that I don't trust you. It's just to help me remember where I've been. Where I need to go next.

**Danse:**  Normally, I would say no if this was strictly Brotherhood-related. But if you must. It's your show. You have the floor.

**Nathan:**  Thanks...

[Soft shuffling of footsteps stops to full silence.]

**Nathan:** [Groans then laughs softly] ...Great. Now that I'm here, I don't know where to begin.

**Danse:**  Well, you're clearly from a Vault. Why don't you start there?

**Nathan:**  No, I only  _lived_ in a Vault. I'm  _from_ Boston. Born and raised, lived here most of my life... Go Red Sox, heh.

[Silence]

Not a baseball fan, huh?

**Danse:** All right. Cut the _crap_ , Rook.  _Get_  to the point or  _get lost_ , but stop mocking me and feeding me lines. You're _wasting_ _my time_.

**Nathan:**   I'm sorry... I'm sorry. I use humor as a defense, and it tends toward sarcasm when I'm stressed. Used to _really_ piss off my wife. But I'm not mocking you, and I'm not bullshitting you.

Look, I know you don't want to hear my whole life story; you want to know why I didn't lose it at ArcJet when everyone else would've run the other way.

**Danse:** Well... I am... _curious_. It's strictly up to you to tell me what you wish. To be honest with you, I was actually hoping to avoid this conversation after we returned, since I'm willing to wipe the slate clean for you. So, I'll keep this confidential and try to remain neutral, but I can't grant you the same immunity for any other Brotherhood personnel if you choose to tell them.

**Nathan:** ...Wait... _what_? What do you mean, 'wipe the slate clean'? _What_ slate?

**Danse:** Well, despite your... _lack of etiquette_ , your apparent combat training and knowledge of military protocol suggests you're an Enclave deserter. Or NCR, though we weren't aware their presence had spread this far East.

**Nathan:**   _Deserter_? Woah. _Woah_. Hold on a sec. I don't even know what those  _are._ And by the look on your face, I don't  _want_ to. Let me tell you everything and hopefully that'll clear up any misunderstandings. It just...requires you to suspend your disbelief for a bit.

**Danse:**  Well, until Haylen gets that transmitter installed, I'm not going anywhere.

**Nathan:** Right. Right. Okay. [Exhales slowly] I am a veteran of the United States Army. Second Battalion, 108th Infantry Regiment. I served for 14 years on active duty during the Sino-American War until I was medically retired in '76. Er...2076, that is.

**Danse:** Sino-American...? Wait. The U.S. Army hasn't been around for decades. Are you...are you saying you're... _pre-war_?

**Nathan:** Well, if by 'pre-war' you mean pre...all _this_ mess, then yes. I was born in 2041. I'm 245 years old. _No, wait—_ —246. I just had another birthday a couple weeks ago... Jesus. My cake would look like a prairie fire, now...

**Danse:**  How is that  _possible_? You don't _look_ like a ghoul.

**Nathan:** Um...thank you? Would've really made this conversation awkward if you'd shot me this morning.

**Danse:** Well, clearly you're _not_ or I would have... I'm sorry. You asked me to keep an open mind and I interrupted. Please. Continue.

**Nathan:** Yeah... Well, I wish I could tell you the story gets more believable from here, but, well...

The morning the bombs fell, I was at home in Sanctuary Hills just north of Concord. I was with my wife, Nora. And our son, Shaun. It was just a regular morning: we watched news on television. Had some coffee. Read the paper... Just an average, suburban family enjoying their average, suburban morning.

A little later, a Vault-tec salesman came by. He said we'd been 'pre-selected' for a space in their Vault, thanks to 'my service to our country.' Whatever... They'd been building that thing for years... It's why Sanctuary Hills was developed right next to it. It'd gone from a total 'Not In My Backyard' uproar, to collective 'meh' in a matter of months. Pay off enough city council members, and everyone conveniently shuts up. So what if we had a few ground tremors and sinkholes open during construction?

I didn't want any part of it, but Nora had insisted. It turned out to be really _damn convenient_ he'd showed up. Not an hour later, we were running up to Vault 111 just up the hill behind our house. Right in our backyard...

When we got up there, they lowered us on the platform, into the to Vault just as we watched...as Boston...

[Shaky breathing, then silence]

Once we were all sealed in the Vault, the scientists told us get in these...pods...before they would be taking us farther underground. They told us they were decompression and decontamination chambers. I remember thinking something was...off. It didn't add up. Like...there wasn't the infrastructure, or mechanisms to account for pressure, or heat exchange, or oxygen toxicity; there wasn't the...equipment, or the space, or–or even the  _staff_ to handle that kind of undertaking... But I'd just seen my hometown blow up. I was a little distracted. And...it's not like I had a choice at that point.

Well...I was right. Vault-tec  _hadn't_ accounted for all of that. They'd never meant to. The pods were cryogenic chambers. They froze us. For a very long time. I don't think they meant to keep us there that long, but...something went wrong. They abandoned us.

I woke up in time to see my wife being... Murdered. Shot. At point-blank range. And then they took our son. Our baby... He's only four months old. He's just so tiny...

I was...trapped. My door wouldn't open. I couldn't do anything. All I could do was...watch... Watch her die. Trying to protect our son...

When my pod finally opened, it was too late. They were long gone. Everyone else was dead——asphyxiated in their cryo-chambers. I don't know if that was on purpose or just a mechanical failure, but I'm the only survivor. Except my son, of course. Wherever he is.

That was a week ago. I've been looking for them ever since.

[Long silence]

**Danse:** ...Wow. That is a... _hell_ of a story.

**Nathan:** [Whispers] Yeah. Sounds nuts, don't it? Not sure I believe it, either.

**Danse:** I didn't say I didn't believe you, Rook. Nathan... I am very sorry for your loss. Your  _losses_. I can't imagine going through that, and then waking up to this...this _Hellscape_.

**Nathan:** Heh. Yeah. That's a pretty accurate description... Thank you, though. That means a lot... You're actually the first person to say that.

**Danse:**  [Sighs] Unfortunately, losing loved ones due to acts of violence isn't a rare occurrence.

**Nathan:**  Yeah. I've noticed...

[Long silence]

**Danse:** You...said you were Infantry?

**Nathan:** Huh? Oh. Yeah, Infantry. Recon. Special Forces. Communications. Overpaid Go-fer... [Snorts] Whatever anyone needed. We wore a lot of hats depending on how our headcount...um, fluctuated. Seems like my job title changed every day for a while.

**Danse:** So...you were stationed _in_ Anchorage?

**Nathan:** Of course. I did three tours in Anchorage while on active duty. When I wasn't deployed, I was usually here in Boston working between Fort Hagen and Fort Strong.

**Danse:**  What was your rank?

**Nathan:** Hmph... Does it matter? Doesn't sound like it's a one-to-one translation to the Brotherhood, anyway.

**Danse:** Not exactly, but there are similarities. I'm just curious.

**Nathan:**  I retired at the rank of Captain.

**Danse:**   _Captain?_ You were an officer.

**Nathan:** Yup. Career military. Would've been Major if I stayed in. But...I found out on my last tour that Nora was pregnant. And then the next day a building fell on top of me...and I got shot covering my second from 'friendly fire'. That's a whole 'nother story... But I took that as a sign that it was definitely time to get out.

**Danse:**   _Indeed_... Your  _second_? You had your own command?

**Nathan:** Sure did. It was a relatively small squad——less than a dozen of us——but we were highly specialized, so we were on standby a lot. Most of my unit were Chief Warrant Officers, if that means anything to you.

**Danse:**  I think so. They were specialists, right? Scribes like Haylen are similar.

**Nathan:** Yeah, I kinda figured. I was the highest-ranking _commanding_ officer, so I got to babysit a bunch of _special genius snowflakes_ by default. [Chuckles] I was the dumbest one in the room.

**Danse:** [Chuckles softly] Oh, I sincerely doubt that.

**Nathan:**  [Chuckles softly] Well, thanks. Glad I've made an impression, but  _they'd_  be the first to tell you that.

[Both laugh]

**Nathan:** 'Special Forces' wasn't entirely accurate. The Green Berets didn't like us calling ourselves that. It hurt their feelings. [Chuckles] So we came up with our own designation. We called ourselves MICE: Mobile Intelligence & Communications Experts. ...And _yes_ , before you ask, we came up with the acronym before we came up with the words. But it was a cute way of saying we were all hackers. Most of our missions dropped us behind enemy lines to infiltrate an enemy base, mess with a bunch of shit, and sneak out again before anyone realized we'd just ruined their day. My specialty was cryptanalysis and phreaking——telephone manipulation. Really does me a lot of good _now_.

**Danse:**  Well, the cryptography certainly did.

**Nathan:**  Yeah. Nobody's bothered to update their passwords in the last 200 years. So I got that going for me.

**Danse:**  Well, that certainly explains your skills. You have quite an impressive record.

**Nathan:** Heh. Thanks... So, uh... Out of curiosity, where does 'Paladin' fall on that scale?

**Danse:** Actually... we'd be peers, I think.

**Nathan:** Oh... Huh.

[Silence]

**Danse:** I... _do_ have the authority to promote you to Knight. It would be a field promotion——nothing finalized until the Elder gets here.

**Nathan:** I thought you said——

**Danse:** I _know_ what I said. But you are obviously a unique exception.

**Nathan:** ...'Knight', huh? Are you offering, or...?

**Danse:** I'm just stating a fact.

**Nathan:**  You really think that'd be a good idea?

**Danse:** Well, you still have to learn the Brotherhood tenets and customs, but with your skills and command experience——

**Nathan:**  Nope. Nope. I'm gonna stop you right there, Paladin... I have  _literally_ been living under a rock for the past 200 years. I'm not exactly the super-soldier I was in the war... The first thing I ran across when I got out of the Vault was a _goddamn housefly_  that nearly killed me. I'm still trying to wrap my head around a Bottlecap Exchange System, for crying out loud. I don't know what the Hell is going on out here. I was looking for a recruiting office——someone who could fill me in on some details——when I picked up your S.O.S.

**Danse:** Well...you found one. In a matter of speaking. Welcome aboard...for all that's worth.

**Nathan:** Heh...yeah. I guess I did... Where's my signing bonus?

**Danse:** [Chuckles] We'll...negotiate that with command, later.

[Silence]

**Nathan:** You know... When I signed up with the Army in '62, I knew what I was getting into...more or less. I mean, there's always more than one reason you enlist, but I knew people who'd served that I could talk to. I researched my options. And frankly, the Army gave me a really good deal. It's why I went with the them instead of the Navy, much to my dad's disappointment. Or the Air Force, which actually sounded more interesting, frankly.

But——with all due respect——I don't know what the Brotherhood of Steel is all about, yet. I mean...it _sounds_ familiar?  _Some_  of it, anyway. But there's some pretty significant differences that I don't want to get too far over my head, yet.

And... [Exhales loudly] I'm gonna be completely honest with you, because you've been more than tolerant with me. My priorities in the military were different when I enlisted than when I left. Paladin, you know what it's like getting your own command...everything stops being about you, and all about your squad. You tend to get a little...overprotective. Or in my case, a _lot_  overprotective. But the things you learn about yourself are greater than any bootcamp or training exercise or mission can teach you.

And that's  _nothing_  like bringing your own kid in the world...

My son is my priority now. I left military life behind to be a dad. So Shaun would  _have_ a dad. So he could  _know_ me in a way my own father never opened up to me, really. And now... _I am all he has_. I will do anything and everything I can to find him. Even...even if it means having to abandon my post.

**Danse:** [Exhales] Well...I appreciate your candor. And I sympathize with your position. But the Brotherhood doesn't take something like that lightly——as I'm sure the Army didn't, either. Before it comes to that _please_ try and let me know. You shouldn't have to make that choice. I'll do everything I can to help you while you're under my command——you're _not_  alone, Nathan. At the  _very_ least, I'll give you the clearance you need to go do whatever you need to do. I won't ask questions. But I need you to be honest with me at all times.

**Nathan:**  Okay... Thank you.

[Silence]

I don't have to go to bootcamp again, do I?

**Danse:** [Chuckles] Well...new Initiates do usually attend training at the Citadel in the Capital Wasteland, but I don't exactly have a way to send you there, now, and I think it would be wasted on you, anyway.

**Nathan:**  'Capital Wasteland'? Where's that?

**Danse:** Oh, uh...formerly Washington D.C.

**Nathan:**  Formerly?  _Formerly?_ [Whispers] Jesus, it's really all gone, isn't it? The Pentagon? The White House? Congress? The Supreme Court? ... _The IRS_?

**Danse:** [Quietly] Distant memories, I'm afraid.

**Nathan:** God... _damnit_... So many people died in Anchorage. For what? People have been laying down their lives for this country for _centuries—_ —I had ancestors that fought in the American Revolution,  _right here_ , in  _this_  town. And  _for what_?  _Freedom?_ _Justice_? The  _'American Way'_? God, that means  _nothing_ now. [Muffled sniffling] I'm so sorry.

**Danse:**  You have  _nothing_  to apologize for, soldier. You served your country, bravely.

**Nathan:**  Well, it wasn't enough, was it? I have  _plenty_  to apologize for.  _My_ generation did this. And wasn't that part of the problem? Nobody wanted to take responsibility for their actions, so _this_  is the result. I played my part.

**Danse:** You can't blame yourself for the actions of an entire sovereignty.

**Nathan:** I could've done more. I could've stayed in and...

**Danse:** Nathan, take it easy. You're in shock. _Understandably_. You should know better than anyone how that catches up to you. Just take a moment——

**Nathan:**   _I don't need a moment. **I need to find my son.**_ [Silence] Then...and then I'll...deal...

**Danse:**  [Long silence] Nathan... How can I help you, now?

**Nathan:** [Sighs loudly] Well, I dunno. Seen any kidnappers come through here with a baby?

**Danse:** I'm afraid we haven't gotten out much. I'll certainly keep my eye out, though. What did he look like?

**Nathan:**  He's a  _baby_ ——he's small, pink, and wiggly.

**Danse:** [Laughs] I meant... [Laughs] Sorry...sorry... I meant the _kidnapper_.

**Nathan:**  [Chuckles softly] Oh. Yeah. That makes a lot more sense...

He was bald. Had a huge scar over his right eye.  _Terrible_ teeth. I'm not sure how tall he was. It was hard to tell from inside that pod. He wore all leather with some kind of weird pauldron I haven't on seen anyone else... He had a .45 magnum, bull barrel, non-standard stock. It looked polished. Almost new.

**Danse:**  Ah. Something tells me that you're one of the few people who's ever seen it up close and, uh...lived to describe it.

**Nathan:**  Yeah. Probably... Any ideas?

**Danse:** [Sighs] Well, raiders abduct children and raise them as their own, or...as slaves. Sometimes sell them on the black market. They don't usually take them that young, though. And this sounds too targeted to be raiders. They're not typically that organized. I would guess he's a mercenary, especially if his equipment looked specialized or new, but finding out who he's working for could prove difficult. Did he say anything?

**Nathan:**  Yeah. He looked right at me and said, 'At least we have the back-up.'

**Danse:**  'The back-up?' You? What's _that_ supposed to mean?

**Nathan:** I guess? Hell if I know.

**Danse:** Did he say anything else?

**Nathan:** I don't remember.

**Danse:** Who was he talking to?

**Nathan:** A woman. At least, I think it was...kinda hard to tell. She was the one that took Shaun from Nora. I couldn't see her face. She was wearing a—a bunny suit.

**Danse:**  ...A  _what_?

**Nathan:**  [Chuckles softly] A  _bunny suit_ , you know, like a—a _clean room_  suit. Like something you'd wear in controlled environment? A hospital or a lab, maybe? We used to call them 'bunny suits' because they make you look like a six-foot white rabbit.

**Danse:** Ah. That's...very unusual.

**Nathan:**  Yeah. A six-foot rabbit is pretty unusual.

**Danse:**  [Exhales sharply] I  _meant_  the  _clean room_. You've probably noticed there aren't a lot of controlled or clean environments out here. Unless...

**Nathan:**  Unless? Unless,  _what_? What do you know?

**Danse:**  Well... The Institute.

**Nathan:** The _Institute_. Those  _synth things_  we fought over at ArcJet?

**Danse:**  They're not just 'those synth things.'  _Someone_  had to make _them_. 

**Nathan:** What do _they_ have to do with anything?

**Danse:** Maybe nothing. But they are known to abduct people and replace them with synth clones.

**Nathan:**  Oh,  _come on_. That sounds like paranoid, superstitious fairytale _bullshit_. Why would they  _do_  that? What could anyone out here possibly have that they don't? It's not exactly like anyone out here is living in high quality luxury. Besides, they'd have to be pretty technologically advanced enough to even pull off  _those_ synths, let alone a real human look-alike. That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard.

**Danse:**  I realize it  _sounds_  that way, but we have supporting evidence.

**Nathan:** What would they want with a _baby_?

**Danse:**   _I DON'T KNOW..._ But isn't it worth finding out? If not for  _your_  child, then someone else's?

[Silence]

Rook, I'm not asking you to make it a priority. If you get a different lead about your son, then,  _by all means_ , follow it. You're in a unique position right now that allows you to move about freely. _Take advantage of that while you can_. All I'm asking is that you keep your eyes and ears open while you  _go about your own damn business_.

**Nathan:** ...Yeah. Yeah. You're right. [Sighs] Ugh, I just feel like I've wasted so much time, already. And now I'm chasing ghosts and goblins. You really have no clue where they are?

**Danse:**  I wish I did. If you find out,  _please_ come and tell me. Part of our mission here was to gather intel on the Institute whereabouts, if we could. We've had...not much luck.

**Nathan:**  Just the three of you?

**Danse:** We...started out with seven of us a month ago when we first got here. Knight Keane was our, uh...most recent casualty. Right before you showed up.

**Nathan:**  Oh.  _God_... Oh God, I am  _so_ sorry, Paladin... I know what it's like to lose people under your command.

**Danse:** ...Thank you. They were good soldiers and they will be remembered and honored. But...as you surely know, that doesn't make it any easier on the living. It does, however, make your timely presence all the more appreciated.

**Nathan:** Glad I could be of service.

**Danse:** Me, too.

**Nathan:**  I just...don't even know where to look. I've lived here my whole life and I have no idea where I should even start. It's all so...different.

**Danse:** Well... I know this is going to sound incredibly self-serving, but...I suggest you work with Haylen and Rhys to complete their missions. It'll help reorient you to the area, and the missions aren't terribly critical, so if you _happen_ to investigate other activity nearby, well...I can't exactly order you not to. And since I can't afford to send anyone out with you, I can't really complain about your rate of progress, either.

**Nathan:** So...busy-work.

**Danse:**  Not necessarily. It  _is_  a significant part of our mission. But there will always be old tech to dig up. And there will always be raiders, and ferals, and Super-Mutants to take down.

**Nathan:**  What's a Super-Mutant?

**Danse:**  [Exhales loudly]  _Oh_ , boy... Well, you won't miss them when you see them. They're big, green, and...volatile.

**Nathan:**  Gr— _green_? Did you say  _green_?  _Jesus_. Should I be worried?

**Danse:**  You should be _cautious. Always_.

**Nathan:**  I'm never gonna get another solid nights' sleep again, am I?

**Danse:**  Hopefully, that won't always be the case. I'm looking forward to a little R&R myself when the rest of the battalion gets here.

**Nathan:**  I bet. Looks like you could use it.

**Danse:** Hmph. I look that bad, do I?

**Nathan:** Well, we just met and all. I wasn't gonna say anything. Yet.

**Danse:** [Snorts] I appreciate it.

**Nathan:** [Sighs] Well, it's something, I guess. I've already talked to them both. Haylen identified some doodad she wants way across town, so it may be a few days before I get there and back again. Rhys wants me to clear out  _Hahvahd Squeh_. Or  _‘College Square'_ , as he insists. He's not terribly impressed with my knowledge of local landmarks. Or anything, really.

**Danse:**  Don't let Rhys bother you.

**Nathan:**  Oh _please_. I've dealt with assholes like him before. You serve long enough, you know plenty of them, if you aren't one yourself.

**Danse:** He's been under a lot of pressure.

**Nathan:**   _And the rest of us haven't_? That's no reason to treat people like garbage. Besides, something tells me that doesn't matter much for him in the personality department.

**Danse:** I know he's an...that he's _irritable_ , but right now I _need_ him. I took him off disciplinary action because he wasn't doing me any good sitting in a brig. He knows how to hold and shoot a laser rifle, and right now, _that's_ what I need.

**Nathan:** Yeah. I hear ya... I'd've done the same thing. Besides, he's not the first person I've run across that deals with grief that way. I guess we all do it different. Some lash out. Some withdrawal. ...Some move into gas stations.

**Danse:** Huh?

**Nathan:** I moved into a gas station. It was the first building I found that still had a roof and all its walls.

**Danse:**  Ah. Well, those buildings are solid. Most of them still standing and relatively easy to secure. Sounds like a tactical choice.

**Nathan:**  It has a cool rocket on the roof.

**Danse:**  [Chuckles softly] Well, I think I've stood under enough of those for a while.

**Nathan:** Aw, you'd love it! I'll have you over some time. We'll throw some mole-rat on the grill. Play some badminton. Watch a ballgame. Or I can tell you about one, anyway. Have some 200-year old warm beer... I'm really selling this, aren't I?

**Danse:** It sounds enchanting, mole-rat and all. I'll be sure to keep an eye out for my engraved invitation.

**Nathan:**  [Laughs] Uh-oh, Paladin. Your sense of humor is showing. I might be a bad influence on you.

**Danse:**  Don't let it get around.

**Nathan:** Eh, we're still off the record. Your secret is safe with me. As far as Haylen and Rhys are concerned, I still think you are a surly and completely humorless hard-ass.

**Danse:** You just can't help yourself, can you?

**Nathan:**  [Chuckles] Nope. It's like someone pushes a button and my mouth just takes control.

**Danse:**  Well, I appreciate you _preserving my reputation_.

[Both laugh]

**Nathan:**  I should go. If I'm gonna clear out  _Havahd Squaeh_ , I gonna need some backup. No  _friggin' way_  I'm doing it alone. Those things are  _fast_.

**Danse:**  Smart decision.

**Nathan:** Are they really 'pre-war' people? Like...like me?

**Danse:** Nathan, they are _nothing_ like you, now.

**Nathan:**  Yeah, but they _were_ , right? I mean, I just keep wondering if I  _knew_ any of 'em, you know? Like...I saw one wearing this dress that I _swear_ was _just_ like the one this sweet little old Italian lady behind the bakery counter at the Super Duper Mart used to wear. She just _adored_ Shaun. Couldn't wait 'till she could bake his first birthday cake. She said I reminded her of her late husband; she used to call me 'Bello'. I think she just wanted to try and make me blush. She'd save me two fresh baked chocolate croissants on Sunday mornings to-go——

**Danse:**  Nathan,  _don't go there_. You _can't_. Mourn for them as you knew them if you must, but keep those thoughts away. They are _gone——_ I am _sorry_ , I _really_ am. Like I said, I can only imagine how difficult all of this is for you. But _they_ can't come back. You can't help them. The best thing you can do is put them out of their misery. 

There are, however, _plenty_ of people that you _can_  help.

[Silence]

**Nathan:** [Whispers] Yeah... Okay... You're right...

[Silence]

[Clears throat] Um... I have to, uh...backtrack to last settlement I stayed to get my help. You guys need anything? Food? Meds? Ammo?

**Danse:** [Sighs] As a matter of fact, yes. We're good on supplies and ammo, but we could _really_  use some provisions. We've been low on food for a while. I...had to ration gumdrops yesterday.

**Nathan:** _Gumdrops?_ You're down to rationing ancient theater candy? Jesus, they weren't even that good 200 years ago.

**Danse:** I assure you, they did _not_ get better with age.

**Nathan:** I bet. Okay, we'll bring you some food. Fresh stuff. I've been working with some of the farming settlements around here, and we got extra. Ever eat a tato? It's not bad. Still don't know exactly what it is, but my robot makes a pretty good grilled one.

**Danse:**  Your... _robot_?

**Nathan:**  Well, yeah... I never said I was  _alone_. [Chuckles] He was our babysitter...before. I was still on temporary disability, and Nora was on mandatory bed-rest for her last term, so we had to get something to help us out. Amazingly, he still works after all this time. He's friendly and not at all bad with extra fire support, either. He's just a little chatty, sometimes.

**Danse:** You don't say. I can't _imagine_  what that's like.

**Nathan:**  [Chuckles] Hey, I spent 210 years not saying anything. I've got a lot to make up for.

**Danse:** Well, pace yourself. You don't have to do it all in one day.

**Nathan:** [Laughs] Yeah, yeah... But...thanks. I've been spending too much time in my own head. Gets a little lonely in that echo chamber, you know? It means a lot to me to be able to tell someone all that. Someone who...who _gets_ it.

**Danse:** You're welcome, Nathan. Anytime.

**Nathan:** All right. Time to hit the road if I'm going to make it back before it gets dark again. That's if Codsworth hasn't blown a circuit from worrying about me——

**Danse:**  Nathan?

**Nathan:**  ...Yes?

**Danse:** What was it like? Fighting in Anchorage?

**Nathan:** ...Oh. Well? Aside from the bone-numbing cold and occasional polar bear or moose wandering through our camp, ‘bout the same as it is now, I s'pose.

**Danse:** I don't follow... How so?

**Nathan:** Well, every war boils down to one of three causes: you're either fighting over territory, fighting over resources, or fighting over a difference of opinion. And nine times out of ten, that difference in opinion is over who controls the other two. The technology and the players may change, but the _reasons_ never do.

[Silence]

_Tell_ me I'm wrong. Tell me that's  _any_  different than now, or _any other_ war in history.

**Danse:** I...can't. Yet.

**Nathan:**   Heh... Well, think about it and get back with me, Paladin.

**Danse:** [Chuckles] I look forward to continuing our conversation, Captain.

**Nathan:** ' _Captain?'_ I thought we agreed I was an 'Initiate'.

**Danse:** We did. But we're still off the record.

**Nathan:** Heh...right. 

**Danse:** Good luck to you.

**Nathan:** You, too... What...what's that?

**Danse:** The Brotherhood salute.

**Nathan:** Oh...okay. Well, I'm sure I'll learn it, eventually. But until then, I'm gonna stick with the one I'm used to, if you don't mind.

**Danse:**  I'll let it slide for now.

**Nathan:**  Permission to go about my own damn business,  _sir_ _!_

**Danse:**  [Chuckles] Permission granted, soldier.

**Nathan:**  Thank you, sir. I'll be back soon. Don't let Rhys eat all the gumdrops before I get back.

**Danse:** [Sighs then chuckles] _Dismissed._.

**// End Transcription**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why does Danse wear orange in the vanilla game? He's an officer. He's the same rank as Brandis. He should be wearing black, like Brandis does, which is the color of the officer's uniform. So I made myself a mod so that he's in that black BoS flight suit by default. And that Snoopy hat had to go, too.
> 
> This was one of those conversations that I mentally tossed around in my head for a _long_ time. I wrote parts of it in various formats, too--third person, first person narrative, even toyed with doing it as a comic before I realized it was hella long. I finally settled on a transcription dialogue because it reads pretty fast that way. To make it read like a transcript instead of a script or a play, I read Kobe Bryant's 40-page deposition as research. You're welcome. Now you don't have to. (Trust me, you really don't want to.)
> 
> I understand why the game doesn't make you repeat your whole story to every single companion every time. Players would get super tired of doing it, it's another huge chunk of dialogue to have to record and program, etc. Still, I'm a dialogue freak and I wondered obsessively about how some of those conversations went down, like the one here with Danse. Like that line Nate says, "I did my time in the military." _WHAT_ military? Danse should've been _way_ more suspicious about that than he showed, particularly with his obvious dislike of the Enclave. 
> 
> Even so, Danse and male Sole Survivor probably have a lot more in common out of the box than any other companion. And being the know-it-all war nerd Danse is, I wanted to more than hint at a little hero-worship of Nathan. I imagine it's a little bit of how we tend to still venerate WWII as a "righteous war." There ain't no such thing, as Nathan clearly argues here.
> 
> Anyway, more of these dialogues to come, so I hope you weren't bored to death. These two have a ways to go before they meet in the middle.


	23. Won't You Be My Goodneighbor?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nathan survives Goodneighbor and all he got was this lousy t-shirt. (Actually, for Goodneigbor, that's pretty good.)

Dear Diary,

Today I made a new friend.

Or maybe I should say...

Today I met someone who doesn't immediately want to kill me, which nowadays, that's basically the same thing.

Let me back up a tad, first.

College Square was pretty much a non-event. It took me a couple hours to get back to Starlite Drive-In, stuff Codsworth's round metal body with whatever provisions we could fit in there for the troops, and get back to Cambridge. Once there, Codsworth and I painted the Square red. A good time was had by all——unless you _were_ a feral ghoul, then you were the, uh, red paint.

Back at the Police Department, Knight Rhys was overjoyed and delighted by our success. He enthusiastically shook my hand, gave me a bouquet of roses, and put a tiara on my head before telling me to go fuck myself. I think he's warming up to me.

Danse was appreciative of the rations, though he seemed weirdly suspicious of Codsworth. In fact, Danse's whole disposition toward me was 180-degrees from the conversation we'd had in the garage earlier that morning now that he was tucked safely back in confines of that metal shell of his. But he gave me my next assignment.

He wants me to investigate the trail of one of their recon teams that vanished from the area a few years ago. Picking up a weak trail like that won't be easy, but he seems to have confidence in my investigation skills and knowledge of the area. More than I do, perhaps. Just because I lived in Boston my whole life doesn't mean I  _walked_ all over it. The landscape looks a lot different travelling by foot than by vehicle.

But now that they're stocked up on provisions and no longer having to ration ancient theater candy, I'm pretty sure this was Danse's way of telling me he doesn't expect to see me back for a while, which gives me plenty of space to explore other pursuits. The man's about as subtle as a Nuka-Cola billboard, but he's got a certain finesse for discretion. It was around 13:00 and not a cloud in the sky when Codsworth and I headed back out. Strolling through downtown Boston is neither fun nor wise. If raiders and ferals aren't out to get you, then something else is. Speaking of which, I met my first Super Mutant today. Several of them, in fact. Seems Danse also has a gift for understatement; "big", "green" and "volatile" were not the three words that immediately sprang to mind. But "Ahhh!", " _AHHHHHHH!_ " and " _ **AHHHHHHHHHHHHH!**_ " definitely were.

And another Wasteland resident I won't be inviting over for tea anytime soon.

Chatty as he may be, I was glad to have Codsworth with me. Pretty sure he saved my butt several times today. I never liked going downtown, and I now I can definitively say I hate it. At least I don't have to pay for parking now, though. Blindly running my ass off was at least effective in getting me over the Charles River. Looking for shelter from the rain of bullets, I found myself at a place called Goodneighbor. It sounded friendly, so I went on in...

...and was immediately proven wrong.

 

...or something like that. Truth is, it was even stupider than that, but some of the details have been changed to protect my amusement.

After shanking my would-be mugger, my new mayoral host introduced himself as John Hancock. Goodneighbor is, “Of the people, for the people,” he made clear to me before making an exit. I wanted to ask him if he was for real or if he was just dressed up early for Halloween...then I remembered he'd just stabbed a guy right in front of me for trying to extort me, so I guess I should be a little grateful...and careful. Man, these Colonial actors take themselves  _so seriously_!

Nora would've loved him. Well, maybe not the stabby part so much, but everything else. So,  _of course_  I'm gonna go talk to this guy a-sap. 'Bout time I found some decent entertainment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Getting back into the comics a bit. I missed it a lot, so you'll see a few more pop up here and there. Hope nobody minds.
> 
> My love for John Hancock is palpable. I make no apologies. I made a fresh and nifty high resolution skin mod for him which you can see quite well here. I posted it at [Yet Another Sexy Hancock Retexture](https://www.nexusmods.com/fallout4/mods/37055). There's even a--ahem--Full Monty version of him if you're crazy like me (don't judge me!), so mind the NSFW warning. (SFW version is available for XBOX on Beth.net. Be sure to read the description carefully before installing it 'cause you need another mod to go with it for it to work.)


	24. Crowd Control

**ROBCO HOLOTAPE TRANSCRIPTION**  
BOSTON – OLD STATE HOUSE  
30 OCT 2287 15:04  

// BEGIN TRANSCRIPTION

[Ambient crowd noises, murmuring, whispering, footsteps and shuffling around.

 **DRIFTER** : 'Scuse me.

 **NATHAN** : No problem.

 **CITIZEN** : ...Can you see?

 **NATHAN** : Yes.

 **CITIZEN:** You sure?

 **NATHAN:** I'll be fine. Thank you. Especially since we'll be looking _up_.

 **WOMAN** : Oh hey, there. _You_ are one tall drink of water, ain't ya... Excuse me. Just need to get by...

 **NATHAN** : Sure.

 **STONER** : Hey, is that a Vault-suit?

 **NATHAN** : Uh, no. It's a fake. I bought it at a costume shop. There's a Halloween party right after this.

 **STONER** : Woah...it looks _so_ _real_! Far _out_ , man! Happy Halloween!

 **NATHAN** : Uh, thanks. You, too.

 **HANCOCK** : Hey, everyone! Gather 'round! Let's kick the breeze back...shoot the fat...

 **WOMAN** : You're an idiot, Mitch. Nobody celebrates Halloween, anymore. You'd be impressed by a goddamn lamp post.

 **STONER** : What's wrong with lamp posts?

**MANY: _SHHHHHHHHH!_**

**NATHAN** : [Snickers softly]

 **HANCOCK** : Now, I know you all are doing your own thing. But I don't want anyone here to forget what matters most...

 **STONER** : Sex, drugs, and rock and roll!

 **HANCOCK** : Well...yes. Okay, what matters _second_ most, _jackass_. Heh heh heh...

[Audience laughter]

 **NATHAN** : [Chuckles] Jesus...

 **HANCOCK** : Hey Daisy, glad you could make it. How's my favorite girl doing? Didn't I see you on a date with Marowski the other day?

 **DAISY** : He wishes!

 **DOUCHEBAG 1** : Hell yeah, I'd tap that.

 **DOUCHEBAG 2** : Gross, dude, she's a _ghoul_.

 **DOUCHEBAG 1** : Yeah, man. Experience. Plus, built-in birth control. [Both DOUCHEBAGS laugh]

 **NATHAN** : Hey, man. _Not_ cool. _Knock it off_.

 **DOUCHEBAG 1** : Geeze, what's _your_ problem?

 **NATHAN** : It's gonna be _you_ if you don't _shut up_.

 **HANCOCK** : All right, all right. We're getting off track. What was I saying? Oh, that's right! What matters... We freaks gotta stick together! And the best way to stick together is to keep an eye out for what drives us apart, you feel me?

 **NEIGHBORHOOD WATCHMAN** : Yeah, you tell it like it is, Hancock!

**HANCOCK** : You bet, brother. I don't aim to sugarcoat this. The Institute the _real_ enemy! Not the Raiders, not the Super Mutants, not even those tools over in Diamond City.

 **GHOUL** :  I don't know, Hancock. I'd sure love to give McDonough a kick in the ass!

 **HANCOCK** : Hey, we all know I got my own personal beef with that lard-head, but stay focused! Now, I want everyone to keep the Institute in mind. When someone starts acting funny. When people are doing things they don't normally do. When family starts pushing you away for no reason. We all know who's behind that kind of shit. And the only way to stop it is to stick together. They can't control us if we're not afraid! Now who's scared of the Institute?

 **AUDIENCE** : Not us!

 **HANCOCK** : And which town in the Commonwealth should the Institute not fuck with?

 **AUDIENCE** : Goodneighbor!

**HANCOCK** : And who's in charge of Goodneighbor?

 **AUDIENCE** : HANCOCK!

 **ALL** : Of the people, for the people!

"My fellow Goodneighbor-icans...er, Goodneighbor-ites.  
Goodneighbor-ese. Goodneighbor...wegians?  
Aw, fuck it. How y'all doin'?" 

[Applause fizzles out quickly, people muttering and talking as they disperse]

 **NATHAN** : [Mutters] You have got to be shittin' me.

 **DRIFTER** : Helluva guy, that Hancock, doncha think?

 **NATHAN** : Huh? Oh...yeah. I'm a _huge_ fan. I've been to all his shows. I can't _wait_ to see his production of _1776_.

 **DRIFTER** : ...huh?

 **NATHAN** : Oh, it's like _Cats_. But with old guys. You'll love it.

 **DRIFTER** : Oh... Okay. Cool...

**//END TRANSCRIPTION**

* * *

That's Goodneighbor in a nutshell. I wonder if Hancock gives that speech every day.

Goodneighbor is located in the old Scollay Square red light district, and it's a crime-ridden flophouse for junkies and vagrants. So, basically quite an improvement from what it was two centuries ago.

...Wait, what?

One of the Neighborhood Watch guys mentioned that a "Bobbi No-Nose" (I bet she smells terrible...ha... *rimshot*) is hiring for jobs around here. They said there's a "catch" working with her...it's probably illegal (with a name like that, no doubt), but pays well, apparently. I just might look into it. I could always use some walking-around caps, and maybe she'll have some other... _connections_ I can feel out.

Before I resolve myself to a life of crime, though, Hancock seems to have his finger on the pulse of this town. I'll pay him a little visit and see what he knows about this Institute...and whatever else I can charm out of him.

* * *

###### To Do List:

☑ Pawn my (s)crap at Daisy's place  
☑ Eat  
☑ Get room at Rexford  
☐ Pay Mayor Hancock a visit  
☐ Talk to Bobbi about possible work (alley behind the scary lady Assaultron's shop)  
☐ Check out Memory Den (Silver Shroud!?)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is short, so I'm posting the next chapter as well.


	25. Bleeding Heart

I caught up with Codsworth again and instructed him to hang out by the edge of town and keep a low profile——or, as low as his hover jet would let him, anyway——just in case any stray bullets went flying by. With KL-E-0 the  _alluring Assaultron murderbot_ running the only major weapon store in town, he was a bit hesitant. I suggested he be a gentleman and go talk with her, maybe even flirt with her a bit and see if he could get us a discount. He didn't find my attempt to pimp him out nearly as hilarious as I did, so I left him to improvise.

I went to the State House to chat with the good mayor of Goodneighbor. What a character... Underneath the fancy coat and tricorn, though, he's still a typical politician: he talked a whole lot, but didn't tell me much. Most of it wasn't worth keeping the recording, but there were a couple moments.

I caught the end of a conversation he was having with his bodyguard/assistant Fahrenheit when I walked in. They were going over some plan to fend off Super Mutants that've decided to set up camp right around the block just on the other side of the town walls. Goodneighbor seems to be well fortified, though, so she didn't recommend an all-out frontal attack. Smart move. Their Neighborhood Watchmen seem to be effective, so long as they're holding defense. But they're dads and husbands and regular Joes, not honed infantrymen.

"So, what? We just turtle up? That's not my style..."  
"The only thing that's 'not your style' is losing, Hancock..."

Well, that seemed to be on par with what I'd seen and heard about him so far. When I interrupted them, Mayor Hancock welcomed me in and tolerated some of my questions.

I'm curious about the ghouls in this town. One of them, Daisy, owns a shop when you first walk in, is apparently a pre-war ghoul. I chatted with her a bit about "the good old days." She thought I was full of it at first, since I didn't go into a whole lot of detail, but she quickly warmed to me. I asked her what it's like to be a ghoul, and she was kind of annoyed by that, but she humored me anyway.

I learned that many ghouls do deteriorate over time, but there are plenty that just "woke up this way." The truly horrifying thing is not watching your face rot off over time, or even living with the abhorrent bigotry that targets them. It's that there is  _physiologically_  nothing that separates the intelligent ghouls from the feral hordes like the ones Danse and I fended off, other than an advanced state of mental decay. The deterioration never stops. Any one of them could potentially go feral, and once you have, you're gone, or at least everything that made you  _you_. No coming back. Some people just take a really, really, really long time to get there.

It doesn't seem like anyone knows how this whole ghoul-thing works, least of all the ghouls.

Not Hancock, though. He is——unsurprisingly——a whole 'nother thing unto himself.

"I came into this town about... a decade ago? Had a smooth set of skin back then. While I was busy making myself a pillar of this community, I would go on these... like ... wild tears... I was young... Any chems I could find, the more exotic, the better. Finally found this experimental radiation drug. Only one of its kind left, and only one hit. Oh man, the high was so worth it. Yeah, I'm living with the side effects, but hey, what's not to love about immortality?"

So, like a super-concentrated chemotherapy formula, maybe? I didn't ask, nor did I tell him that pharmaceutical companies weren't exactly known for manufacturing euphoria. Heck no, that'd be bad for business. What he'd taken had been designed to kill him...or a part of him anyway. If it had _that_ kind of effect on him, it must have hurt like hell——for days and days, if not weeks or months, poisoning him and eating him from the inside out.

Mom's "treatment" was bad enough; _nothing_ about it was euphoric. The nausea, the weakness, the hair loss, the wasting away, the emotional and mental stress of seeing the uncomfortable and pitiable looks on the faces of loved ones when they look at you no matter how hard they try to hide it... In the end, it wasn't even worth it. No _high_ would be. Why would anyone _willingly_ put themselves through that?

I wanted to call bullshit on him. His story was too rehearsed, too cocky. In fact, it sounded like he _enjoyed_ telling it, like it made him a daredevil or a hero. Whatever.

"All that chem use definitely prepared you for a career in politics," I said, tongue firmly planted in cheek. He wasn't amused. I changed the subject.

"Did I hear you talking about the Institute?" I said.

"Oh, you like my little speech? I do it every once and a while, in case they're listening in. I want those Synth-makers to know that Goodneighbor is off limits. No one gets 'replaced' in my town."

"I'm still fuzzy on this whole Synth-thing," I admitted. "What do you mean 'replaced'?"

**"** Don't tell me we have a pair of virgin ears? You just made my day. Synths are just like you and me. Only they didn't get created the natural, fun way. No. They were built. By the Institute. Some of the older ones are basically just robots, but the new models? Your own mother couldn't tell the difference. So that's why me and mine gotta stay extra-special close to one another. Any slight change might be a clue that someone's been replaced."

Ugh, again with the "mother" thing, just like Danse had done. It's starting to sound like paranoid folklore——I had to avoid rolling my eyes. But I prodded a bit, see if I could poke some holes in his logic——I asked him _why_ would they _replace_ people? Was there an age limit? Was anyone a target, say, a _baby_ , for example? That got me a very weird, vaguely horrified look.

"Hell if I know. Mess with people's heads? Control us from the shadows? Or maybe they do it just because they can. No one knows where the Institute is, what kind of people they are, or why they've decided to engineer their own slaves, but there it is."

In the long run, he didn't tell me anything new I hadn't heard or pieced together myself.

They say there are five types of fear: fear of death, fear of physical pain, fear of losing control, fear of separation, and fear of identity death. Hancock's summary covered 'em all, I think.

It sounds like propaganda, except nobody's capitalizing on it, as far as I can tell. You don't just spend those kinds of resources to effectively _weaponize people_ ——or at least our perception of people——just "because you can." It makes no bloody sense!

I wanted to storm out of there, yell that this was all a waste of time and nonsense, but I forced myself to keep it cool. After all, he had four armed guards outside his door, plus whomever this Fahrenheit person was. She didn't look like someone I want to tangle with. So, I changed the subject again.

"Know of any work around here?" I asked him, hoping he'd mention this Bobbi No-Nose person.

Looking to make a few caps, huh? I'll tell you what. I got reconnaissance needs. There's a lot weird talk coming in about a place called the Pickman Gallery. It's Raider territory up there, but they've been quiet. Like, uncomfortable post-coitus quiet? Snoop it out, and give me the word."

That wasn't what I expected to hear, but his description was amusing. I told him when I'm in the area, I'd look around.

He said, "Be thorough, okay? I'm not paying for a look-see. Find out what's really going on there."

"So, is this another Institute set-up?" I asked him, wondering if I even have the firepower or muscle to even take on something like that alone, or even with Codsworth as back-up. Danse and I barely made it out of the last one, though he might be up for another op if it involves the Institute. Danse, Codsworth, and me...maybe I could even corral Preston into the fight, if I needed... "What can you tell me about it?"

He frowned. " _Nothing_. That's why I'm paying _you_."

Well, at least he gets to the point. He said his standard payout is 200 caps, but he'd give me 250 because _he likes me_. Oh, don't I feel _special_.

Hell, I can't help but like him, too. Hancock's probably high. He's undoubtedly crazy. But he's brighter than he lets on, I think, and there's...something else there, too...

I asked him if I could walk around the Old State House a bit after we were done talking. He cautiously agreed with a warning not to take anything or make too much noise. I told him I wasn't looking for anything in particular, I was just genuinely curious about the old landmark; it had been a while since I'd been there, back when it was still a museum. There wasn't much to take——pretty much every inch of it had been looted——and some of the structure was damaged, but the building is still in pretty good condition, considering it's, what...almost 600 years old, now? Kind of amazing.

But the building wasn't what impressed me. It's what he was doing _with_ it.

Upstairs in the loft area was a scattering of mattresses, as well as a random assortment of medical equipment and furniture. A handful of people were sleeping up there——one of them, another ghoul. She looked pretty rough, too, even for a ghoul, and not in a way she probably could have done to herself. She'd been bandaged, maybe even stitched a few places——I thought I recognized the distinct zipper marks underneath some of the dressings. She was wearing a set of plain, but clean clothes. She had a nice little care kit on a dresser behind her——a clean towel, hairbrush, some toothpaste and a toothbrush, some water, a couple of snacks... She wasn't just another strung out junkie sleeping it off, she was sleeping because she'd been running. And with the reinforcements the Mayor had set up in his little sanctuary of his, she'd definitely run to the right place. Or maybe the _right place_ had even run to _her_...

A soft cough behind me alerted me I was being watched. I turned and there was Fahrenheit standing in the doorway, smoking a cigarette.

"Oh, hi," I said, trying to sound friendly...and clueless. The first rule of infiltration is that confidence will get you _in_ almost anywhere; but if you're caught, humility _might_ get you out. I walked over to her. "Got lost. Thanks for checking up on me."

"Enjoying your tour?" she said, unfazed by my little white lie.

I shrugged. "Eh. You see one ad hoc infirmary, you seen 'em all," I hedged.

She didn't respond with so much as an eyebrow twitch.

"My wife used to volunteer at a shelter for abused and battered women," I said. "It was... _enlightening_."

"Hm. She sounds like a saint."

I didn't tell her that most of Nora's "volunteer work" was providing free counseling to the victims, urging them to press charges against their abusers...so she could _destroy_ the perp in the courtroom. She was every bit the fearless, bloodthirsty shark that lawyers get such a bad reputation for, terrifying and awesome in her element, but for all the _right_ reasons. More than once I apologized to her on behalf of my entire sex. But it was such a damn turn-on to see her work, eh...I wasn't _that_ sorry.

"She had her moments," I said. Quickly changing the subject, I asked, "So, what's it like working for The Man?"

She narrowed her eyes at me. "Are you _always_ this nosey?" she said.

I flashed her a dopey grin. "Yeah, pretty much."

She grudgingly gave into a little smirk and shrugged. "He has his moments."

I nodded over my shoulder to the sleeping "patients" in the room. "And what about them?"

"What about 'em? They come in. They rest. They get better. They leave. Rinse and repeat. We don't ask a lot of questions," she said. "Now, if they _volunteer_ information, well..."

"Let me guess——you suddenly have an open spot for occupancy in Goodneighbor?"

She nodded to the ghoul woman sleeping near me. " _Exactly_ one. As of this morning, in fact. I believe you were there to witness the Mayor delivering the, uh... _final eviction notice_."

I was a bit surprised by that, and I guess it showed. Fahrenheit was clearly amused by my honest reaction. "Ah... I had a feeling capital punishment was a bit of an... _extreme_ sentence for extortion."

"He always has his reasons," she said, throwing her cigarette butt on the floor and crushing it to dust with her heavy, spiked boot. It was the first time I've ever felt sorry for a cigarette butt. "Sometimes, it's because they're a waste of oxygen, like Finn. And sometimes the reason is that they're just stupid."

"There's no crime in being stupid," I said.

She studied me for a few seconds. I decided to withhold any further comments. Clearly my legal advice wasn't appreciated. Or...current, probably.

"Did you just crawl out of the Vault _yesterday_?"

"Last week, actually," I said. She gave me a hard, doubtful stare. I held her gaze steadily. "I had a craving for pizza. No one in the area was delivering."

She sighed in a way that people often do around me. "Well, don't be one of 'em. Just keep a watch out for who you hustle for, and use your head. We wouldn't want any _conflict of interest_."

"I'll keep that in mind," I said.

She turned and started down the stairs again. "Now, what say we leave these nice people to sleep in peace, and you finish your tour elsewhere. _Outside_ , preferably."

"Funny...I was just thinking the same thing. Thanks for the suggestion."

She grunted and disappeared around the corner.

I donated a few stimpaks from my own stash to each of the resting patients. One of them watched me suspiciously as I set a stimpak down on the floor by her mattress. "My wife would kill me if I didn't leave something," I whispered and tried to give her a friendly wink. She didn't move, just watched me cautiously as I slowly backed away. I saw her take the stimpak and smoothly hide it under her pillow as I turned away. 

I quietly started my way down the stairs then stopped halfway when I overheard Fahrenheit talking to Hancock back in his receiving room. I stopped on the stairs out-of-sight and listened for a moment. I convinced myself I wasn't eavesdropping, since she was clearly speaking loud enough for me to hear. Maybe it was her way of letting me know where I stood with her boss. Or maybe she just wanted to insult me in a completely passive-aggressive way.

"What was he up to?" Hancock said.

"Just looking around, I guess. He's kinda...weird," Fahrenheit said.

"What, like pervy weird? Or..."

"No, no. Nothing like that. Just... _weird_ , weird. Like...old-fashioned, or something."

"Nothing wrong with that," said Hancock.

"Out-of-touch."

"Well, he's from a Vault. What do you expect?"

"You ever heard of Vault 111?" she asked.

"No, but Vault types don't exactly _appreciate diversity_ in their establishments," said Hancock, dripping sarcasm. "I don't exactly stay up on all Vault happenings. And anyway, if he figures out what's going on with that 'Pickman Gallery' thing, I don't give a fuck _how_ weird he is."

" _I_ could take a few guys and go check it out," she said.

"No, you _won't_ ," he told her sternly. "It's too dangerous. I need you _here_."

She scoffed, and I could almost _feel_ the accompanying eye roll through the wall. "Aw, _dad_. You never let me have any fun."

"Hey. Don't you _dare_ compare me to that ass-clown. I would kill that motherfucking slave-trading twat-mongering knob-sucking shit-brained failed-excuse-for-a-coat-hanger-abortion cockweaseled fuckstick all over again if I could," he said in one breath.

Fahrenheit giggled. It didn't hit me until later how uncharacteristically girly of her that seemed, because I was holding my breath trying not to burst out laughing. Hancock's certainly got an... _interesting_ command of the English language. As well as an impressive lung capacity.

A couple of the Neighborhood Watch guards standing around the staircase chuckled. "Tell us how you _really_ felt about him, boss," called one of them.

"Oh, don't worry. I'm just getting warmed up," Hancock called back. He sounded amused with himself.

I'd have loved to hang around and listen to more of his stand-up routine, but as Fahrenheit had already suggested, I'd reached the end of the tour. Hancock's _clearly_ a busy man.

As I was leaving, I glanced over from the top of the spiral staircase to his office again and caught his eye. I gave him an upward nod. He looked surprised to see me and he glanced over at Fahrenheit for a second before he looked back to me. Apparently, he didn't realize I was still here.

"Ciao... _friend_ ," he said gruffly, more as a caution than a farewell.

"Ta-ta," I said and waved at him, more as a farewell than a caution. Hey, I know when I'm a little fish, regardless of pond size.

 

* * *

 

Back out in the main street, the scene was distinctively less festive. Two Neighborhood Watchmen stood over a dead man. It was clear they'd been the ones to take him down. Everyone else had pretty much scattered.

I heard one of the guards say, "Poor Sammy. Can't believe he got taken."

As I approached, the other watchman said, "Looked just like him, too."

"What happened here?" I asked them.

"Ah, poor Sammy got snatched up by the Institute. Then those bastards send this low-rent double in his place. Pathetic."

"He was a Synth?" I said. "How do you know?"

"Yeah. Unbelievable, huh? Sammy was fine a few days ago and then BAM. He's acting funny, gives up cigarettes, the booze, stops cheating on his wife."

"Sounds like an improvement."

"Hey, _back off_ , smoothskin," the first one said, pushing his rifle toward me. "I don't like your tone. I'm _very sorry_ you haven't had the _lovely_ experience of killing a man who's wearing your friend's face. Sammy might've been a douchebag and a drunk, but in a town full'a douchebags and drunks, he was one'a my favorites. I ain't feeling too happy right now, 'cause after we clean this up, I gotta go look his mother in the eyes and tell 'er her only son is dead, and I'd rather shoot myself in the kneecaps if she don't do it first. But I got _no fuckin' problem_ taking down a total buttinski knucklehead know-it-all punk like you. So, beat it, _Vault-boy_ , before we decide to make you an 'unfortunate bystander.' Capeesh?"

Ouch... What I'd _meant_ to say was that it sounded like he was just trying to make some improvements in his life for the better. What had come out was...something a totally insensitive dick would say. For all my previous ranting about everyone's lack of remorse or compassion, I'd just done the same thing. I guess the constant looking-over-your-shoulder, kill-or-be-killed anarchic _madness_ of the Commonwealth just becomes another...Tuesday. But whether they were right or wrong to do what they did was irrelevant, now. A man they knew and clearly cared about was dead.

"That wasn't what I was trying to say," I said. "I'm...I'm sorry. And I'm very sorry about your friend. I know that had to have been hard."

The other watchman shook his head as he stared down at the body. "Goodneighbor takes care of its own, you know? Needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few, or some such shit. It still ain't fair."

"Tell me about him. What was he like?"

"We pretty much already did."

"What did he do? For a living, I mean?"

"Oh, he was a locksmith," said the watchman. "Best there was. Wasn't a lock in town he hadn't fixed or replaced himself. With all the break-ins around Goodneighbor, it certainly kept him busy. Heh heh, some of us even teased him that he was the one _keeping_ himself in such high demand..." Both guards chuckled.

"Huh. Do you think that could be why they replaced him?" I asked.

The two guards immediately fell silent and looked at each other, uneasily. It was obvious neither of them had bothered to consider it.

The first watchman turned and glared at me through inky-black eyes. "Hey, didn't I ask you already if you got somewhere else to be?"

"All right, all right. I'm leaving," I said, backing away with my hands up, and looked for the first exit away from the grisly scene.

My choices were pretty limited to the remaining three public access doors: The Rexford Hotel, which I'd already checked into and was a pretty beat scene by itself; the Third Rail bar connected to the Old State House (in more ways than one); or the mysterious Memory Den.

It's was pretty obvious which door to choose.

Unfortunately, it was the wrong one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I like Farenheit, but she doesn't have enough to do. I'm also not fond of the way Hancock just basically abandons his "daughter" (at least, according to the relationship hierarchy in the game code [!!!]) after he decides to take off with Sole Survivor——or the way the _story_ abandons her, rather, even though I know she's dead in at least _one_ of those scenarios. Even another couple lines of dialogue would've even been nice besides the one about "sacrificing players." Overall, I just wanted _more_ from Hancock and the whole Goodneighbor storyline. There's friggin' depth there if you're take the time to piece it together. Really deep...depths. If I'd had my way, he'd have his own DLC.
> 
> Instead, you get him here. Ha. If you're not a Hancock fan, I feel very sorry for you. Maybe I can help persuade you a bit. If not, you're gonna be very bored.


	26. Christmas Break

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is just a little "out of time" chapter I'm posting as a little holiday special. Don't consider it part of the regular timeline.
> 
> The next three chapters get pretty...dark. They will make your eyeballs explode with color, but they are an absolute downer. Given that it's the holiday season, I don't want to bum everyone out and leave you on a really annoying cliffhanger. 
> 
> Also just in from the Department of Real Life Sucks, Too, my dad passed away yesterday. I still haven't quite processed what that means, except add another pathos log to the life-lesson bonfire. Looks like I'm not quite done with the Fallout therapy, yet. I'm going to take the rest of the year off and possibly some of January to deal with that, as well as build up my content buffer again. I have a full 22 page comic I'm planning to post around Valentine's Day, but I don't have much of anything after that right now because it took me _months_ to do those lousy 22 pages. So let's say we'll meet back here sometime in mid-January for the first of the next three depressing-as-hell chapters. That'll be fine because January usually sucks ass for everyone anyway, right?
> 
> I do hope everyone has a great holiday season, though, and I'll see you back here again in January 2020. Cheers.
> 
> -Teri


	27. Memory Dump

The moment I walked into the Memory Den, the overwhelming combination of old cigarette smoke, incense, and stale perfume nearly knocked me over. My first instinct was to turn right back around and go _anywhere_ else, except that I was pretty sure the Neighborhood Watch guys hadn't disposed of their doppelgänger friend out in the street yet in the two-point-five seconds I had last been out there. I didn’t want to bother them, and they made it damn clear they didn’t want me bothering them, either. So I squared my shoulders and bravely carried on into the plush, velvety interior.

I braced myself for any number of terrible things I’d see...sex, drugs, virgin sacrifices...the usual fare you find around Scollay Square. Fortunately, it wasn't any of those.

For a second, I thought I’d walked into an eccentric car rental. Three mini-car sized bubble-domed pods lined the room. Each had a seat for one person with a small monitor that hung right in front the end-user's face. Some shabby-looking guy looked like he was sleeping in one of the bubbles, and then it dawned on me what this was.

Virtual Porn.

Civilization has lost the ability to refine raw materials, to manufacture a combustible engine, to build structures sturdier than a house of cards, and yet we’ve apparently made great strides in porn technology. Good for us. At least we know our priorities.

I know I'm not exactly pure white driven snow, but if ever I was  _NOT in the mood_...

"I think you've stepped into the wrong place, sweetheart. You don't look like you need the Memory Den. Do you even know what we do here?"

One word: _PLASTICS_.

"Er...does it involve a back room and a handful of singles?" I said.

"Oh, no. You have the wrong idea, honey. I don't sell skin. I sell memories."

"...Ohhh-kaaay. Sure. That _absolutely_ makes sense..." I looked around at the nearest open pod and briefly cringed when I wondered how many times a day they have to clean the glass. "Just to be clear, do you mean  _your_  memories, or someone else's?"

She smiled, white teeth against dark red lipstick. So, people _do_ still practice dental hygiene. That's nice. "Oh, no, not  _my_ memories. Not many people could handle that."

A 'Good' Witch...I hope?

"I meant the, uh... _royal_ 'your,'" I said, lamely.

She chuckled. "No, we're not a peep show, either. We sell your  _own_ memories. And let me tell you, reliving an experience? The right experience? It's far more intense than anything else. But it's not for everyone."

"Oh? Why's that?"

"It's no secret that reliving a memory can be about having a good time, or helpful in remembering something you've forgotten or lost. But like anything worth doing in life, honey, it's got a kick to it. And the first time can be a little...disorienting. So I keep the client list very small. People I trust. It helps us avoid a lot of...unpleasantness."

I should have dropped it there, but I still wasn't ready to head back out in the street. Besides, my inner nerd was piqued. "How does it, um...how does it work?"

"Oh, I just run the show," she said. "The doctor back there is responsible for lifting the curtain, so to speak."

Ah, the Great and Powerful...wait, who are you?

The woman in the back typing on a terminal spoke without looking up. "It does a surface scan of the hippocampus for the densest cluster of neurons and synapses then stimulates that area to intensify the memory imprint."

She'd said that all in practically one word. I’m sure she didn’t expect me to follow any of that, or have been the least bit interested. It was obvious she sure as hell didn’t expect any follow up questions. Well, I'm no brain surgeon, but I've seen more pictures of my innards than any one person should. You tend to pick up a thing or three. "Er...non-invasive, I hope?" I said. "Like an MRI scan?"

That got the doctor to look up from her console.

"Somewhat..." she said as she coolly evaluated me like something someone had spit into a test tube. She had an accent I couldn't quite place——German? Austrian? I wondered if it was fake. I imagine moving from another continent isn't exactly easy these days. "The imaging output relies on a special algorithm that decodes the image from the occipital lobe and projects it to the monitor. You don't really _need_  the monitor, but it helps _focus_  the experience."

"Neat. Kinda like a virtual aircraft simulator, then."

"A  _what_?"

_Oops. Too geeky. Save the archaic technobabble for the second date, kid._ "So, does it change your memory?" I asked, changing my tack. "Can you control it, like lucid dreaming? Or experience it from another person's point of view? Or maybe even overwrite a...traumatic...memory?"

"Well... Like any piece of technology, people have found uses for it that it wasn't strictly designed for," said the bombshell back on the chaise lounge. "Some clients have been able to do some very... _creative_  things. We don't encourage that, though. It's meant to be more observational." She smiled, dropping her aloof Madame Guru schtick for a moment. "You  _are_  a curious one, aren't you," she said, amused.

I shrugged. "Yeah, I'm a bit of a technophile."

"Not what I meant, but we'll go with that." I'm sure she didn't mean that in a predatory way, but I felt my face start to heat up, nonetheless.

"I don't suppose you'd let me take one apart to see what's inside, would ya?" I said, trying to flash her my most charming boy-next-door grin. Nora always said I looked like  _Alfred E. Neuman_ when I did that. Of course, she'd  _said_  that, but it had worked on _her_ more than once, too. After all, she'd married me, right? "You can trust me. I'm  _great_  at taking things apart."

The blonde laughed. "It's not taking it apart that's the problem. I'm pretty sure even  _I_  could do that. But, I must admit, you're the first person who's ever been more interested in how they work than what sort of kicks it'll give you. I guess there's no harm in giving you a trial run if you'd like to experience it for yourself. It's not as if I have a line at the door right now, anyway."

That  _really_  hadn't been my goal. It was clear this was old, pre-nuke tech with some significant modifications, and I couldn't help wonder what it _had_ been designed for. My guess was they didn't know, either. I was genuinely curious about the technology——or rather, what was _inside_ it. I'm that guy who'd rather visit the control room for the roller coaster than be subjected to  _ride_  it. But if she was  _offering_...

I looked back at the pod again, then back at her. "I'm not gonna have a seizure or stroke or anything, am I?"

She arched a thin, exquisitely groomed eyebrow. "Have you ever _had_ a seizure or stroke?"

"Not yet."

"Then you should be fine."

I sighed. "Oh, all right. You talked me into it." If someone offers you a seat, or food, or a gift, or a ride in their virtual memory ripper, you take it. It's just the polite thing to do.

"Hardest sell I've ever had," she said, rolling her eyes coyly. "And I'm not even charging you."

She—— _Irma_ ——suggested I get comfortable and remove my armor and anything that might otherwise distract me from "the experience." 

I gave her a look before I started unbuckling my armor. " _How_ comfortable?" I said. 

She fought back a little smile. "You can keep the suit on." She thought for a second, then shrugged, "Or not. It's up to you. But if I have to put you in a private room, I _will_ charge you." 

I laughed and stepped over to a couch pushed to the side of the wall and _de-shelled_ myself, trying not to feel too self-conscious.

When I was done, she glanced down at my waist. I was alarmed for half a second, afraid I had inadvertently ripped my Vault-suit running, or being shot, clawed, or acid-spit at and was exposing more of myself than I'd intended to before I realized she was looking at my wrist. The Pip-Boy. I hadn't realized until then that I barely feel it anymore. I take it off to shower and sleep, because the few times I didn't I woke up with the logo branded backward onto my face for the day. Otherwise, I don't go anywhere without it.

I inwardly cringed at the thought of leaving it out in the open for someone else to find. It didn't occur to me until later that I wasn't thinking about the biometric data the Pip-Boy has been collecting on me, or settlements I've surveyed, or map markers I've saved, or my contact list, or to-do lists, or the growing list of locations I've broken into (and how), or conversations I've recorded——I only thought of this journal. My own little private therapist. I shook my head and told her it stays with me.

I've become a 13-year old girl fiercely protecting my diary. Just add unicorns and glitter.

"Memories involving other people are easiest," she said. "Recent events involving loved ones. Does anything come to mind?"

I thought of all the memories I'd had with Nora——the day we met, the day I proposed, that time I surprised her by showing up for her graduation...

Our wedding day... She was so beautiful. At least until I "accidentally" dropped cake down her cleavage... Clumsy me. (Best. Cake. Ever.)

Or that one time we went to the lighthouse. Or that  _other_  time at the lighthouse. Or that  _other_ ,  ** _other_**  time at the lighthouse... God, I loved that lighthouse...

Or something a little more family-friendly and wholesome. Like when Shaun was born...

Well, I don't know if "wholesome" describes it. More like a comedy. But I thought,  _what the hell?_ , I could use a good laugh. And perhaps a little...motivation. The very first moment I saw her holding our tiny, newborn son... I'd give anything to feel that again.

I wasn't sure how much detail I had to go into. I figured she didn't want to hear my life story, so I gave her the very, very,  _very_  abridged version. "My... wife died recently. If I could just see her one last time..."

"Oh, honey, I'm so sorry. It's never easy losing someone that close to you. But I think we can help. Have a seat in the lounger and we'll see what we can find."

I walked over to the bubble-domed clown car and gave it a skeptical looksee.

 

Well, _there's_ your problem, right there...

"Any suggestions on how to get in this thing?"

The grin in her voice was obvious. "You're young and fit. You'll figure it out. Don't worry, we won't laugh at you."

Yeah _right_. At least not out loud. I got the feeling that  _I_  has just become  _her_  entertainment for the day.

I awkwardly climbed in and shifted around to get comfortable, triangulating the most comfortable position between my ass, feet, and head, while Irma gave a couple commands to the Doctor still typing away on her terminal in the back.

 

Say, _'AHHHHHHH!!!'_

The bubble dome came down over me, soundproofing the interior, and the monitor hovered in front of my face. The only sounds I could hear were the static from the test pattern on the screen and my own heartbeat thudding in my ears. I tried to force myself to relax. As the pod hummed to life and the picture came into view, a sudden paralyzing chill and feeling of familiar dread washed through me...

Even in an economy based on rubbish, the old saying is still true.

You get what you pay for.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back from Florida, finally. Flying out of Tampa International the other day, I saw a young couple tucked off to the side, trying to have a private little moment, clinging to each other, both of them with tears in their eyes. She hugged him tighter and sobbed, "I can't _do_ this!" and he responded by trying to assure her in a firm voice. I didn't catch exactly what he said, but his tone seemed a little edgier than necessary. I chanced a look just to make sure there wasn't some kind of trouble happening, and my eyes immediately fell on the characteristic backward American flag patch on his arm... I remember seeing in the news earlier that day a long line of soldiers crossing a tarmac and boarding a plane to be shipped off to Iran, and my heart fell to the floor. 
> 
> Yup. 2020 is off to a great start. You know, I play Fallout with the pretense of not having to actually _GO_ there. I hope everything turns out okay for them. And for the rest of us. 
> 
> I'm glad to be home.


	28. Artifacts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *****IMAGE INTENSIVE*****. Chapter is a full-size 12-page comic that loads all at once. May take a moment depending on your connection. Canonical violent images.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My "picture book" interpretation of the inciting incident. This was a weird discovery I made in the game by accident on my second playthrough: if you go the Memory Den in Goodneighbor prior to picking up Nick Valentine in your party, this chapter, as well as the preceding and following chapters, play out. I didn't expect to have to watch it again so early in the story, so it was a bit jarring. Not in a bad way, just in a Holy Shit way. I also had to watch it about a half-dozen times to get these screen caps, so I am fully traumatized, thank you. 
> 
> What bothered me most about it, though, is that Sole Survivor experiences the scene in third-person——complete with internal commentary if you click on certain things——in crystal clarity. That doesn't seem right to me. Memory degrades over time, even if it's fresh, so I wanted to show it as glitchy and erratic and as you might expect a traumatic memory to be. I think I did an okay job conveying that.
> 
>  **Director Commentary:** Those glitch effects were fun to learn in Photoshop. There's a gazillion tutorials online if you need to learn how to do it, and I'm pretty sure I applied most of them, sometimes one on top of the other, and even made up some of my own. (As much as the glitch effects were fun to learn, frost effects on skin and eyelashes were _not_. That was largely trial and error. Don't ask me how I did it for this and the previous panel in the last chapter, because I'm not sure I could tell you.)
> 
> Also, all of the actors in the scene will hold custom poses if you apply them. This includes the Sole Survivor in the frozen coffin tube, which is a duplicate of the (invisible) player character in the scene. The spouse will hold one as well, prior to dying. The only one it doesn't work on is Shaun, because he isn't so much an actor as he is a prop. *LOL* But if you want to make Kellogg do pin-up poses right there in the Vault, I guess you can, you sick fuck.
> 
> I like this scene, though, as sad as it is, and I really hope I did it justice. There's a few scenes in the game that seem to go completely off the rails as far as the mechanics go. Kellogg's memory trip is another one, as well as Dima's puzzle memory weirdness in Far Harbor. They're not any special mechanics, though, they just stretch the limits of what the game can already do. I know some of those scenes annoyed a lot of people, but to me, it just makes the game that much more memorable because of those little extra experiences. God, I _love_ this game, and I especially love _messing_ with the game for my own purposes!


	29. Signal to Noise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This one is a bit intense... Story-wise, yes, but also image-wise. Maybe load it and then go get a sandwich and come back to make sure it all comes up, eh?
> 
> Also, if you're not already, I've been using a skin to tell this story. It's significantly enhanced here. Not sure how it looks on all devices, but if you'd go up to the menu and make sure the "Creator's Style" is active, it's worth it. It still reads okay without it, but you're kinda missing out.

* * *

"Let me out, _let me out_ , **_let me out!_** **LET ME OUT, _NOW!_** "

"Okay, okay... It opens automatically. Just give it a second."

As soon as I could, I shot to my feet, legs wobbly, but still working. My heart was racing, thudding in my ears. I was breathing like I'd just finished a 500 yard sprint. And I wanted to keep going. I wanted to _run_. Fight, or flight, or both.

"You're safe, now, sweetheart. I'm so, so sorry... If I'd had any idea we were going to put you through that again, I would've said no."

"I'm fine, _I'm **fine**_ ," I said trying to push past her. "I just need to find Shaun, _now_. I need to find...my... Oh... God."

I was the opposite of fine in pretty much every way possible. I felt horrible. Sick. Dizzy. Nauseous. My head was wasn't pounding so much as stabbing me between my eyes. And then my legs stopped working. I don't even remember feeling myself fall, but I wound up on their filthy floor along with all the loose papers, debris, trash, dust...

Jesus, doesn't anyone know how to use a broom anymore?

"Calm down, take it easy..."

I wish people would stop telling me that!

I felt hands on me...a woman's hands. I tried to crawl away...didn't want to be touched. _Leave me alone, I'm a married man!_ I wanted to yell, and then realized abruptly, _No. You're **not**_.

Nora...  
_Goddamnit._ **WHY?**  
_WHY HER?_  
It should've been _**ME**!_

I put my hand over my heart——I could feel it pounding like it was trying to break free. _What the hell had that machine done to me?_ And then I realized...

I wasn't just reliving the _visual_ memory of watching Nora die in full Technicolor, hi-fi stereophonic sound, I was reliving _everything_. Not only the psychological trauma——guilt, grief, fear, anger, all that fun stuff——but the physiological responses, too: the cryo-sickness, the disorientation, and the pain. _Ooooh_ , _god_ , the pain.

The body remembers.

I might've been kind of impressed, if it wasn't taking all my willpower not to throw up.

Maybe I _should._  
At least it'd force them to use a _goddamn mop_ , for a change. 

I tried to laugh or cry or shout, but I couldn’t stop wheezing. My tongue felt numb. Couldn't catch my breath. My face was wet with or sweat or tears or both. My whole body was shaking from the feeling of a million needle pricks in my skin... this one I knew a little too well: frostbite thaw. _Jesus_ , really, that _too_?

_Damnit_ , I don't have time for this!

"Doctor Amari, get the Calm-X! He's going into mnemonic shock!"

"On my way!"

I tried to crawl away again, and collapsed on my face. Someone took my hand. I squeezed it, thought they were trying to help me to me feet and realized they were pushing up my sleeve instead. Someone else—— _not_ lady hands——was pushing me back onto the floor.

"Kent, hold him still. I need to find a vein."

"I'm trying, Doc. He's strong for a wiry guy!"

"Don't hurt him," worried the couch lady.

"I don't think that's a problem," said the gravelly-voiced man. "Guy could give Grognak a run for his money!"

Aw, shucks, guys, I'm really not that strong. Especially since my shoulder surgery...

Trying to initiate a little romantic Mommy and Daddy alone-time, I tried to pick up Nora and carry her off a couple weeks ago, and we both went down like a sack of wet cats. We cried with laughter. Even Shaun giggled at us rolling around on the floor as he peered at us through the bars of his crib. Codsworth thought we were dying. He wanted to call 9-1-1 until we finally got ourselves under control and convinced him we were fine. 

Nora called me a "geriatric parent." I said I was "seasoned." She said it's pronounced "senile". I pushed her in the bedroom and said I'd show her something that rhymes with "senile"...

"My smile," I said, demonstrating.

There was a lot less talking after that.

_Shit_. Did I just say a couple _weeks_ ago? Heh, my bad. Talk about a geriatric parent. 

No... No, no, no, no _how_ can that be possible? How can _any_ of this be possible? Maybe I’m crazy. Maybe I’m dreaming. Maybe this is my psyche trying to grasp the fact that I'm really lying in the snowfield somewhere in B.F.E. Alaska, bleeding from a gunshot hole in my head as my body systemically shuts down.

Let's face it, what makes more sense here: our hero witnesses a devastating world event only to wake up from cryogenic sleep 200-years later to see his wife murdered and son kidnapped, sending him on a path of revenge and redemption into an increasingly nightmarish world of mutated monsters, and surrounded by a cast of increasingly outrageous characters...

...or an average soldier of average skill dying in a snowbank watching his formerly average life flash before his eyes until he finally accepts the truth...that he never had a son, never made it home to marry his girl, never had much of anything at all.

Cut. Print. Fade to white.

Isn't that how the twist ending always goes? It's the very definition of a tragedy.

See, _tragedy_ isn't just sad. Lots of things are _sad_ ——that's drama. **_That's life_.** But a _tragedy_ is defined when the protagonist of a story, whether through hubris, ignorance, or good old-fashioned destiny, ultimately becomes their own smoking gun, their own foil, the vehicle of their own demise. Not always, but often preventable. You know it's a good tragedy when you have a hard time feeling sorry for them for being such a colossal putz.

Meanwhile, everyone else in the story moves on. The girl, as much as she exists outside of his own inflated ego, is just fine. She gets over him in no time. He was never much of a lover, anyway, probably wouldn't have been much of a husband, either.

So a new chapter begins. A new story...maybe a spinoff. A comedy this time, even. She starts to see the guy in her apartment building. He's nice. He's funny. Good looking, in a non-threatening way. He's got a good, stable job. He's _definitely_ not military.

They get married, they get a house, they get a dog, they have kids. They have goofy neighbors, they go to PTA meetings. They make light of the obvious differences between men and women while a canned laugh track plays on cue in the background. The ratings go through the roof.

They have a foosball table in the basement. They never show you the story of how they got said foosball table, you never see them play it, _it just is_. This is set dressing to show that, while they are respectable citizens, good parents, and have steady incomes, they still know how to have _fun_.

In time, hardly anyone remembers anything about the series of events that started it all. The _tragedy_.

I never had a foosball table. You can't say the word "foosball" in a tragedy.

Pinprick in my arm. I stopped shaking. I stopped struggling. The nausea, the pain, even the panic all started to fade. Just the sound of snow in my ears.

Sorry, Shaun. Sorry, Nora. If this _is_ all a dream, then maybe you're both still safe. Or not even real at all. I kinda hope that's true...

I guess we'll see if I wake up from all this.

  
  


  
  
> ... _If._ █ 

 

 


	30. Life is but a Dream...

Am I living?

Am I dead?

  
  
>...does it matter? █

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the month of February——or what's left of it, anyway——I'll be posting a comic to a new work. It's a supplement to this, but it can also stand on its own, so I wanted to give it its own space.
> 
> I'll be posting a page-a-day, like a little advent to Valentine's Day...with Valentine's Day at the start of the calendar instead of at the end, but you get the idea. 
> 
> So join me over at [**From This Day Forward**](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22341268/) for a much-needed change of pace.


	31. Ancient History

Loading session....DONE.

Login accepted. Connecting network drives............DONE.

  


Welcome to BoSNET, Scribe Haylen. Ad Victoriam.

You have [1] new URGENT! message.

  


 [ DANSE ]  ***PERSONAL & CONFIDENTIAL*** YOUR EYES ONLY!  OCT 28 2087 05:24  [!]

 [ RHYS ]   WHAT DO YOU THINK OF THE FNG?     OCT 27 2087 16:01 [D]

 [ RHYS ]   NEVERMIND THE FNG BROUGHT SOME    OCT 27 2087 15:26 [D]

 [ RHYS ]   DO YOU HAVE ANY TOOTHPASTE I CAN BORROW?    OCT 26 2087 21:18 [D]

 [ RHYS ]   RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: FWD: RE: FWD: FWD     OCT 26 2087 13:15 [D]

 [ RHYS ]   ARE YOU BUSY? WANNA GO FOR A WALK?     OCT 26 2087 16:01 [D]

[  **H**ELP ] [  **B**ACK ] [  **D**ELETE ] [  **L**OAD ] [ **S**EARCH ]            [  **Q**UIT ]

 

 

From: Paladin Danse DN-407P

To: Scribe Haylen HN-118FS

Subject: ***PERSONAL & CONFIDENTIAL*** YOUR EYES ONLY! 

Date: October 28 2287 05:24 

Haylen,

Now that we’re back online with the Citadel, I have a special assignment to ask of you while we wait for the Prydwen. I’m working on our mission reports and my recommendation of our newest member for Elder Maxson, and I need some information quickly.

First, link up to our knowledgebase and see if we have anything on Vault 111, including any info on whatever vile experiments Vault-Tec was up to, as well as any resident roster or files that might be available. I don’t need any detailed reports, just high-level information. 

For the second request, I need you to be a bit more thorough. I need you to search any pre-war official military personnel records, as well as any public records on a “Nathan Rook (Captain),” circa 2040 through 2077. I realize that database has more holes in it than an old pair of gym socks, but I’ll take anything. Our newest recruit has some rather...astonishing claims, and I need as close to a background check as we can get.

Lastly, I want to stress that this should be kept completely CONFIDENTIAL.

***DO NOT MENTION ANY OF THIS OUT LOUD.***

We’ve had some incidents lately that are far too coincidental to leave to chance. Anything we vocalize should be guarded against sensitive ears. That goes for enemies as well as “certain chatty memebers of our own team.” Report your findings to me here though ENCRYPTED COMMUNICATION, only.

That should keep you busy for 15 minutes. 

\- Danse

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From: Scribe Haylen HN-118FS

To: Paladin Danse DN-407P

Subject: ***PERSONAL & CONFIDENTIAL*** YOUR EYES ONLY! 

Date: October 28 2287 05:54 

Paladin Danse,

Thanks to that Deep Range Transmitter, it only took me 10 minutes. (That thing is FAST, by the way. If R&D can backward engineer some more, the wasteland could have a functional wireless communication network, possibly one better than whatever existed before. It could be the most significant development to our infrastructure since the telephone. Convincing the upper ranks that the technology is worth releasing to the public, though, is another battle. ANYWAY...)

I was able to dig up quite a few things, and you’re right: my research turned up some pretty remarkable stuff. Here’s a rundown: 

Vault-Tec’s experiments with Vault 111 involved “long-term effects of suspended animation on unaware, human subjects” through use of crygenic pods. There were patent numbers referenced, but those were all long gone.

As far as the Vault’s experiments are concerned, it’s not clear how long the test subjects were to remain in stasis, but instructions were to escort the “residents” upon immediate arrival in the Vault to their designated cryogenic pod, then run on a skeleton crew for 180 days until they got an all clear and further instructions from Vault-tec. Vault-tec would then take over the monitoring the residents remotely. Science staff were not allowed to intervene with the experiment unless 80% of the resident population perished. Doesn’t sound like they expected many to survive rehabilitation. Unsurprisingly, like most of their experiments, the data was inconclusive.

There was a roster of names on file of potential clients from their sales contacts. I scanned it, and wouldn’t you know, a ROOK, NATHAN/NORA from SANCTUARY, MA shows up. Interestingly, though, the name appeared on a Do Not Call list. It was dated August 2077, so I guess they changed their minds? That or Vault-tec just didn’t honor the privacy and harassment laws at the time. THAT’S not a surprise.

But the U.S. military records was where it got really interesting.

His name shows up in a couple reports. A NATHAN B. ROOK, FIRST LIEUTENANT is listed on a mission report about Operation: Anchorage from the winter of 2066. There’s about a dozen or so other names in the initial deployment and it called him out as officer in charge of a small mobile communication strike team that reclaimed a compromised listening base. That puts him as one of the FIRST soldiers in Alaska during the outbreak of the Sino-American War.

That’s not all.

A NATHAN B. ROOK, CAPTAIN also came up cross-referenced with a report called “Liberty Prime Security Threat Analysis and Recommended Countermeasures,” from May of 2073. But Cpt. Rook isn’t just mentioned--he’s the AUTHOR. Unfortunately, it’s classified and I couldn’t read it. As in, NOW. By US. (Level 1, in fact, so way above both our pay grades. Too bad, because I’d LOVE to know what that’s about.)

U.S. Army personnel records had full OMPR on him, including a Selective Service registration card (2059), a commission letter (2062), discharge statement, and photo ID (attached). Hair is a little shorter, maybe a little less wear and tear, but the likeness is uncanny. I didn’t read through or download the whole record because the file is HUGE, and you said you needed it quickly. Unfortunately, the DRT isn’t THAT fast. But it’s safe to say he had a long and interesting, if not highly succesful, career.

On the public records side, I found a birth record (2041) from Mass Bay Medical Center (born with two feet, by the way, so at least that checks out), a marriage certificate (2067), voter ID (No Party), and a Massachusetts driver’s record (2 moving violations, contested in court and dismissed--same date, even. Must've been quite a story!). No other criminal records, though (sounds like he was too busy). He’s cross-referenced and listed as the father for the birth record of a Shaun Rook in August of 2077 (same date as the moving violations, in fact!). Mother was Nora Rook. (Oh no...what a horrible time to become a new parent. Poor thing.)

But short of a written biography, this is the most complete data I’ve ever seen on an individual. To be fair, I’m sure there are others like him, I’ve just never had a reason to look.

Sir...are you saying this is OUR Nathan Rook? Does this corroborate his story? If he is the real deal, that’d make him almost 250 YEARS OLD...and that’s the least amazing thing about him!

\- Haylen

* * *

#### ATTACHMENTS:

ROOK_OMPR_23012075.IMG

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From: Paladin Danse DN-407P

To: Scribe Haylen HN-118FS

Subject: ***PERSONAL & CONFIDENTIAL*** YOUR EYES ONLY! 

Date: October 28 2287 05:59 

Could he be a synth?

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From: Scribe Haylen HN-118FS

To: Paladin Danse DN-407P

Subject: ***PERSONAL & CONFIDENTIAL*** YOUR EYES ONLY! 

Date: October 28 2287 06:13 

Ah...I thought that might be where this was going.

I suppose it’s possible, given that we know less about the Gen 3 synths than the other two generations...and we don’t know that much about the other two.

But most of the Gen 3 synths we’ve confirmed seem to have really vague and uneventful memories of their past--they typically say they were orphans, or settlers, or merchants. Nothing special or elaborate. We just don’t know anything about the Institute’s memory implantation process, but we assumed they keep it simple to stay under the radar. The more elaborate the story, the more people will get curious and start trying to dig up facts (which is totally NOT AT ALL what we’re doing!).

Even so, one thing is for certain: whether Gen 3’s are manufactured, grown in a lab, or cloned from an original DNA sample, they don’t just have a full head of memories right out of the decanter...or Petri dish, or incubator, or whatever the heck they come out of. If he IS a synth, someone went through a lot of trouble to program him with quite the backstory.

In the old days, access to these kinds of records would’ve made him an excellent target for identity theft. These days, it seems like a LOT of work, even for the Institute.

Why? Did he give off any particular vibes that he might be?

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From: Paladin Danse DN-407P

To: Scribe Haylen HN-118FS

Subject: ***PERSONAL & CONFIDENTIAL*** YOUR EYES ONLY! 

Date: October 28 2287 06:14 

You’re the resident expert. You tell me.

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From: Scribe Haylen HN-118FS

To: Paladin Danse DN-407P

Subject: ***PERSONAL & CONFIDENTIAL*** YOUR EYES ONLY! 

Date: October 28 2287 06:18 

Well, for what it’s worth, my professional wild-ass guess is no, but you know as well as I do that a synth could be right under our noses and we wouldn’t even know it. Gen 3 synths are more biologically human than machine anyway, which is why they’re so hard to detect. He seemed legit, but you spent way more time with him than I did. I wasn’t around him long enough to notice anything unusual.

But if his story checks out with what he told you, well, then...if it looks like a duck and quacks like a duck, and maybe more importantly, IDENTIFIES as a duck, who are we to say it’s not a duck?

It reminds me of the Ship

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From: Paladin Danse DN-407P

To: Scribe Haylen HN-118FS

Subject: ***PERSONAL & CONFIDENTIAL*** YOUR EYES ONLY! 

Date: October 28 2287 06:23 

???

What does a ship have to do with a duck?

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From: Scribe Haylen HN-118FS

To: Paladin Danse DN-407P

Subject: ***PERSONAL & CONFIDENTIAL*** YOUR EYES ONLY! 

Date: October 28 2287 06:30 

Well, they’re both wet! Duh! 

(Ha ha. Sorry. Rhys came in looking for something and I had to hit send before I got to finish my thought.)

Anyway, I was about to say it reminds me of the Ship of Theseus. It’s an old ancient Greek thought experiment on the philosophy of identity.

It is said that when Theseus founded Athens, the Athenians wanted to preserve his famous ship in the harbor for all time as an important monument to their heritage and culture. Over time, parts of the ship would rot and need to be replaced in order to keep it in top condition. Eventually, years, decades, even centuries later, all the original parts had been replaced by new ones. It then raises the question: was the restored ship in the harbor still the same ship that Theseus sailed?

The paradox goes on to say that each part of the ship that had to be replaced was carefully disassembled and safely stored to prevent further decay, so that at a later time when the technology existed to “cure” the rotting wood, they could fully reconstruct the ship with the original pieces. However, upon achieving that, would this “new” ship be Theseus’ original ship? And if so, what of the restored ship that’s been docked in the harbor all this time?

In other words, does an object’s significance and value rely on the physical composition of it, or our perception of it? And at what point does that change?

But ships are one thing. Applied to humans, it’s a little more complicated.

It’s clear Rook’s memories and identity once belonged to SOMEONE. If he acts, and talks, and identifies himself as that person--even as incredible as his story might be--we don’t have any reason NOT to believe him. After all, people change all the time, both physically and perceptually. After everything that’s happened to Initiate Rook, I wonder what he’d say if you asked him if he was the same person that went into that Vault 200 years ago...

Are YOU the same person you were that left Rivet City to join the Brotherhood all those years ago? For that matter, are you the same person you were when we first got to the Commonwealth just a month ago?

I know I’m not.

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From: Paladin Danse DN-407P

To: Scribe Haylen HN-118FS

Subject: ***PERSONAL & CONFIDENTIAL*** YOUR EYES ONLY! 

Date: October 28 2287 06:48 

Careful, Haylen... I appreciate your existential commentary, but there are some in the Brotherhood that would consider what you are suggesting to be borderline blasphemous, hypothetical or not.

But you are right. We were not sent here on a witch hunt--or a duck hunt, as the case may be. We have no reason NOT to accept Initiate Rook at his word. Vigilance should be our first line of defense, not an excuse to abandon trust. Or empathy, for that matter.

We will accept him at his word and treat him as a respected member of this team. His experience, skills, and knowledge are a unique asset to the Brotherhood of Steel. However, while this information isn’t technically classified and will no doubt inevitably circulate, I do not wish to throw him under the spotlight by calling attention to it. He has enough on his mind. Rook may be extraordinary, but he is still a human being, he is still a soldier, and he is still expected to obey the same rules we all adhere to.

Thank you for your assistance. And the reminder. You’ve definitely given me something to think about during the night watch.

\- Danse

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From: Scribe Haylen HN-118FS

To: Paladin Danse DN-407P

Subject: ***PERSONAL & CONFIDENTIAL*** YOUR EYES ONLY! 

Date: October 28 2287 06:52 

Yes, sir. Of course. And you’re welcome. :) 

Buuuuut, I can’t help wondering...since the Brotherhood of Steel was rebuilt from the remnants the U.S. Army, then that makes the Brotherhood a “reconstructed” version of it, wouldn’t you say? 

So, if Nathan Rook was a Captain while a part of that original Army 200 years ago, does that mean he outranks you, now?

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From: Paladin Danse DN-407P

To: Scribe Haylen HN-118FS

Subject: ***PERSONAL & CONFIDENTIAL*** YOUR EYES ONLY! 

Date: October 28 2287 06:53 

NO.

Now go find something else to do, or I’ll make YOU take Rhys out for his walk today.

\- Paladin Danse

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From: Scribe Haylen HN-118FS

To: Paladin Danse DN-407P

Subject: ***PERSONAL & CONFIDENTIAL*** YOUR EYES ONLY! 

Date: October 28 2287 06:55 

LOL!

Whoops! Better not laugh TOO loud. I wouldn’t want to raise suspicion of “sensitive ears.” ;)

\- Scribe Haylen

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**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really hope you can read this, because it took me an ice age to code.
> 
> I sooo wanted a conversation like this in the game. Fallout 4 gets right up to it, particularly with conversations between DiMA and Nick in Far Harbor, but sadly misses that mark. I played a game called _The Talos Principle_ right before I starting playing FO4, and it doesn't just ask you to prove your humanity, it goes on to ask what the _responsibility_ and _accountability_ of humanity is, as well. Something that's been on my mind a lot lately...I wonder why...
> 
> The Ship of Theseus comes up in a roundabout sort of way, though they never come out and mention it by that. I love the thought experiment, though. I've spent a lot of time considering how it applies to the human condition.
> 
> More Rhys-bashing, because I hate him. Also, I will neither confirm nor deny that this whole chapter was contrived just as an excuse to show off Nathan in his dress uniform. But my favorite part of this conversation, is the suggestion that Danse sat and stared at his terminal for a full five minutes waiting to see if Haylen had a follow-up before he finally wrote her back and asked, "What does a ship have to do with a duck?" He gets impatient when you take too long at the crafting table, so it must've been an excrutiating five minutes for him.
> 
> Thanks for reading, as always. Stay safe out there, my friends. Cheers.


End file.
